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FROM    THE    LIBRARY   OF 
REV.    LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,   D.  D. 

BEQUEATHED    BY    HIM    TO 

THE    LIBRARY   OF 

PRINCETON   THEOLOGICAL   SEMINARY 


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MAY  16  1936 


HYMNS 


MOTHERS    AND    CHILDREN. 


Second    Series, 


COilPILED    BY 


THE    EDITOR    OF    "HT3IXS    OF    THE    AGES. 


f\9*  W 


BOSTON: 

NICHOLS     AND      HALL 

1872. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1865,  by 

WALKER,  FULLER,  A>TD  COMPANY, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


CAMBRIDGE  : 
STEREOTYPED   AND   PRINTED   BY  JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON.. 


THE   LAW   OF   LOVE. 


Oh  !  if  there  is  one  law,  above  the  rest, 
Written  in  wisdom ;  if  there  is  a  word 
That  I  would  trace,  as  with  a  pen  of  fire, 
Upon  the  unsullied  temper  of  a  child ; 
If  there  is  any  thing  that  keeps  the  mind 
Open  to  angel  visits,  and  repels 
The  ministry  of  ill,  —  'tis  human  love  ; 
And,  in  the  yearning  tenderness  of  a  child 
For  every  bird  that  sings  above  its  head, 
And  every  creature  feeding  on  the  hills, 
And  every  tree  and  flower  and  running  brook, 
"We  see  how  every  thing  was  made  to  love ; 
And  how  they  err,  who,  in  a  world  like  this, 
Find  any  thing  to  hate  but  human  pride. 


[iii] 


CONTENTS. 


PART    I. 


CHILDREN. 


Page. 
.  iii 
.  3 
.  4 
.      7 


The  Law  of  Love 

The  Mother's  Hyjl\ W.  C.  Bryant  .    .    .    , 

Baby  Bunn Home  Journal .... 

Lullaby Mary  Forrest  .... 

Cradle  So>-g Dr.  J.  G.  Holland     ...      8 

Lullaby E.  J.  Cutler 10 

The  Outcasts Mrs.  E.  B.  Browning    .     .     12 

Two  Sons Temple  Bar 14 

Cradle  Song Dr.  Watts 16 

Frances Julie  Leonard 17 

The  Beggar Gospel  Messenger .     ...     18 


PART   n. 


HOME     PLEASURES. 

The  Children's  Hour H.  W.  Ijmgfelloic     ...  22 

Love  Words Youth's  Companion    ...  23 

To  a  Child  embracing  his  Mother  .     Thomas  Hood 24 

Popping  Corn Harpers'  Magazine   ...  25 

The  Rabbit  on  the  Wall Catharine  Allan    ....  26 

In  the  Garden M.  0.  W.  0 27 

The  Wonderfu'  Wean William  Miller     ....  29 

[5] 


VI  CONTEXTS. 

PART    in. 

FOR     YOUNG     CHILDREN. 

Page. 

The  BABY  Soldiek Pacific  Monthly     ....  35 

Little  Birdik Tennyson 36 

Little  White  Lily G.  MacDonald 37 

Deeds  of  Kindness Congregationalist  ....  38 

I  am  PAPA'S Julie  Leonard 40 

Song  of  the  Summer  Rain 41 

The  Kitchen  Clock Aunt  Effie's  Rhymes  ...  43 

Little  Lotty Rev.  James  Knapton  ...  44 

The  Idle  Girl Caroline  Howard  ....  47 

Twinkle,  Twinkle 48 

A  Nursery  Song 49 

The  Little  Boy  and  the  Stars     .     .    Aunt  Effie's  Rhymes  ...  51 

The  Out-door  Parlor 53 

Baby  and  Mamma 54 

Little  Willie  and  the  Apple  .    .    .    M.  A.  D 55 

Little  Things 56 

The  Lady-rug Mrs.  Sigourney     ....  57 

The  Vain  Little  Girl 58 

Softly,  Softly,  Little  Child    .     .    .    Julie  Leonard 59 

Industry Isaac  Watts 60 

If  I  WERE  A  SUNBEAM Lucy  Larcom 61 

The  Dirty  Old  Man William  AUingkam    ...  62 

General  Washington 63 

Tin:  Robin's  Secret Penny  Gazette 64 

The  Cherry-tree 65 

The  Tired  Boy From  the  German      ...  67 

Choosinc;  a  Name Mary  Lamb 69 

The  Little  Tree From  the  German      ...  70 

Father's  Story Bayard  Taylor      ....  75 

Good  Night  and  Good  Morning     .    .    R.  ^[.  MUne* 77 

I'm:  PlRST  GRIEF Mrs.  Hemans 78 

I'm':  Bird William  AUingkam    ...  79 

The  Open  Door 81 


CONTENTS.  Ml 

ft 

PART     IV. 

N  A  T  D  R  E. 

Page. 

The  Choice Owen  Meredith   ....  85 

Seven*  times  One Jean  Ingelow 87 

LUCY         Wordsworth 88 

The  Farmer's  Boy 90 

Wishing William  Allingham  ...  91 

The  O'Lincoln  Family Wilson  Flagg      ....  92 

Ready  for  Duty Miss  Warner 94 

The  Winter  King H.  F.  Gould 96 

What  the  Birds  say William  Allingham  ...  97 

The  Wood-mouse Mary  Howiit 99 

The  Country  Child Marian  Douglas .     .     .     .  101 

The  Gbay  Squirrels Mary  How itt 103 

The  Grasshopper A.  Cowley 105 

To  a  Butterfly Wordsworth 106 

Signs  of  Rain E.  Jenner 107 

The  Lark's  Song 108 

Robin-redbreast William  Allingham  ...  110 

The  Robin-redbreast Wordsworth Ill 

It  is  More  Blessed 112 

Winter  Flowers C.  U. 113 

Corn-fields Mary  Eowitt 114 

PART  V. 

FAIRIES. 

The  Fairies William  Allingham  ...  119 

The  Fairy  Queen Ben  Jonson 121 

Fairies T.  B.  Aldrich 123 

The  Fairies'  Dance Julie  Leonard     ....  124 

A  Fairy  Palace Drayton 125 

A  Fairy  Bed Draytcn 126 

Fairy  Favors Shahpeare 126 

Fairy  Torments Ben  Jonson 127 

Queen  Mab Shalcspeare 127 

Mother  Fairie Alice  Carey 128 

The  Answer 130 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

PART    VI. 

RELIGIOUS     INSTRUCTION. 

Pagr. 

The  Parent's  Prayer C.  Wesley 135 

The  Mother's  Work 136 

The  Evening  Prayer 137 

A  Mother's  Morning  Prayer 138 

Baptism Henry  Alford 139 

The  Children's  Hymn 140 

The  Oldest  Christian  Hymn      .    .    .    Lyra  Domestica  ....  142 

The  Better  Land 143 

Tee  Unseen  Would Hymns  of  the  Spirit.    .     .  145 

The  Kingdom  of  God  is  Within     .     .     W.  A.  Danskin   ....  146 

My  Shepherd 147 

Remember  thy  Creator Salisbury  Collection .     .     .  148 

Early  Piety Isaac  Watts 149 

The  Pure  Heart M .  W.  Hale 149 

God Jane  Taylor 150 

The  Great  Teacher 151 

God  in  Nature T.  Moore 152 

God 152 

The  Birth  of  Christ Patrick 152 

A  Christmas  Carol L.  G.  Ware 154 

Christmas  Song Julie  Leonard      ....  154 

The  Childhood  of  Jesus 155 

Only  Believe S.  Sumner 156 

Lost 157 

The  Two  Commandments Roscoe 158 

Love Lange 158 

Love  one  Another 159 

Forgiveness Miss  Fletcher      ....  160 

One  Lesson,  Shepherd Wordsworth 160 

Conscience Hymns  of  the  Spirit .    .    .  161 

Be  True Bonar 161 

The  Golden  Rule 162 

The  Soul Furness 162 

The  Want  Within Furness 163 

Good  Life,  Long  Life H.  Bonar 164 

Seeds 166 


CONTEXTS.  IX 

Page. 

The  Honest  Man 165 

A  Lik Chambers's  Journal      .     .  166 

Small  Service Wordsworth 166 

Morning  Hymn 167 

Evening  Hymn Julie  Leonard      ....  168 

Little  Stars  are  Shining Julie  Leonard      ....  169 

Watch  o'er  a  Little  Child 169 

On  Going  to  Rest 170 

An  Evening  Song G.  W.  Bungay    ....  171 

The  Sower  to  his  Seed London  S.  S.  Magazine    .  172 

A  Child's  Dream  of  Heaven     .     .     .    Julie  Leonard      ....  173 


part    vn. 

LOYALTY. 

Nkw  England J.  G.  Whittier    ....  179 

My  Country,  'tis  of  Thee      .    .    .    .     S.  F.  Smith 180 

The  Little  Drummer R.  H.  Stoddard   ....  181 

Barbara  Frietchie     .......    J.  G.  Whittier    ....  187 

Horatius  the  Roman Macaulay 190 

Love  of  Country Sir  W.  Scott 191 

Casbianca Jfrs.  Eemans 192 

From  Ghent  to  Axe Robert  Browning      .     .     .  194 

Jaffar Leigh  Hunt 197 

Loyalty  Confined Sir  Roger  V Estrange  .     .  199 

The  Mothers  of  1862 Caroline  A.  Mason  .     .     .  202 

Somebody's  Darling 205 

The  Fatherland J.  R,  Lowell 207 


PART    YIII. 

FOR     OLDER     CHILDREN. 

On  the  Lord's  Side 211 

The  Sowers 212 

Earthly*  and  Heavenly  Interest 214 

Paddle  Y'OUR  own  Canoe Annie  E.  Howe    ....  214 

Courage,  Boy;   Courage Rev.  T.  T.  Waterman.    .  216 

Lifp:'s  Mission Rev.  S.  Longfellow  .     .     .  217 

The  Little  Heart's-ease 218 


X  CONTENTS. 

Page. 

The  Lady's  Dream Thomas  Hood 222 

Gold Thomas  Hood 226 

The  Cruse  that  Faileth  not 227 

Little  and  Great Charles  Mackay  ....  228 

Now! SargenVs  Speaker    .     .'    .  230 

By-AND-by Mrs.  Abdy 231 

A  Moment  too  Late Youth's  Companion  .     .     .  233 

Touch  Not 234 

Let  it  Pass All  the  Year  Round.    .    .  234 

Little  by  Little 236 

The  Ladder  of  St.  Augustine  .    .    .    H.  W.  Longfellow    ...  238 

Move  On Goodwyn  Barmby     .     .     .  240 

The  Grain  of  Corn J.  Montgomery    ....  242 

A  Plain  Man's  Philosophy     ....     Charles  Mackay  ....  243 

What  I  live  for G.  L.  Banks 245 

A  Man's  a  Man  for  a'  that  ....    Robert  Burns 247 

The  Royal  Pedigree J.  R.  Lowell 248 

The  Lords  of  Thule 251 

Abraham  Lincoln London  Punch     ....  252 


PART    IX. 

BALLADS. 

King  John  and  the  Abbot     ....     Old  Ballad 259 

Bishop  Hatto R.  South ey 264 

Napoleon  and  the  Soldier  ....     T.  Campbell 267 

PART    X. 

TEACHINGS     OF     CHILDREN. 

Childhood Wordsworth 273 

The  Teacher Charles  Dickinson    .    .    .  274 

My  Boy R.  H.  Stoddard   ....  277 

Little  Benny  and  Santa  Claus 278 

Mi:  too! 281 

The  Captain's  Daughter James  T.  Fields  ....  283 

('mi. i),  Close  the  Door Christian  Inquirer  .     .     .  284 

Little  Willie  Waking  Up     ...    .    Rev.  E.  II.  Sears     .    .    .  286 

The  Child  of  James  Melville  .    .    .     Jlfrs.  A.  S.  Menteath    .    .  288 


CONTEXTS.  XI 

Page. 

A  Little  Child  shall  lead  Them   .    .     Meeta 291 

The  School Fitz  Hugh  Ludbw    .    .    .  294 

The  Little  People 295 

A  Parable J.  R.  Lowell 297 

The  Beconcilhtion A.  Tennyson 299 


PART    XL 

DEATH     OF     CHILDREX. 

To-day  and  To-morrow Christian  Inquirer  .    .    .  303 

Only  a  Baby's  Grave Good  Words 

Our  Baby 305 

Benoxi Chambers's  Journal      .     .  306 

Baby  looking  out  for  Me     ....     Ethel  Lynn 308 

Charlie T.  B.  Aldrich     ....  310 

For  Charlie's  Sake Xeic-YorJ;  Tribune.    .     .  311 

The  Lent  Jewels R.  31.  Milnes 314 

Our  Little  Child  with  Radiant  Eyes     Gerald  Massey    ....  316 

The  Child-angel Jane  Taylor 318 

The  Xuble  Nature Ben  Jonson 318 


PART    XII. 

THE      CLOSE. 

A  Petition  to  Time B.  W.  Proctor    ....  321 

We  Two Clarence  Butler  ....  322 

Song  and  Silence J.  G.  Holland 324 

The  Old  Man's  Dreams Dr.  0.  W.  Holmes  ...  326 

A  Mother's  Thoughts Frances  D.  Gage     .    .    .  328 

Old  Folks 330 

My  Mother X.  P.  Willis 331 

The  Gray  Swan Alice  Carey 333 

An  Autumn  Birthday Once  a  Week      ....  336 

Bock  Me  to  Sleep Mrs.  Alers 337 

"The  E'en  brings  a'  Hame".    .    .    .    Harpers'  Weekly     .    .    .  339 


THE   MOTHER'S    HYMX. 


ORD,  who  ordainest  for  mankind 
Benignant  toils  and  tender  cares. 
We  thank  thee  for  the  ties  that  bind 
The  mother  to  the  child  she  bears. 


AYe  thank  thee  for  the  hopes  that  rise 
AVithin  her  heart,  as,  day  by  day, 
The  dawning  soul  from  those  young  eyes 
Looks  with  a  clearer,  steadier  ray. 


And,  grateful  for  the  blessing  given, 
With  that  dear  infant  on  her  knee, 
She  trains  the  eye  to  look  to  heaven, 
The  voice  to  lisp  a  prayer  to  thee. 


[3] 


BABY   BUNN. 

All-gracious  !  grant  to  those  who  bear 
A  mother's  charge,  the  strength  and  light 
To  guide  the  feet  that  own  their  care 
In  ways  of  Love  and  Truth  and  Eight. 


W.  C.  Bryant. 


BABY    BUNN. 

Winsome  baby  Bunn  ! 
Brighter  than  the  stars  that  rise 
In  the  dusky  evening  skies, 
Browner  than  the  raven's  wing, 
Clearer  than  the  woodland  spring, 
Are  the  eyes  of  baby  Bunn  ! 

"Winsome  baby  Bunn  ! 

Smile,  mother,  smile  ! 
Thinking  softly  all  the  while 
Of  a  tender,  blissful  day, 
When  the  dark  eyes,  so  like  these 
Of  the  cherub  on  your  knees, 
Stole  your  girlish  heart  away. 
Oh  the  eyes  of  baby  Bunn  ! 
Rarest  mischief  will  they  do, 
When  once  old  enough  to  steal 
What  their  father  stole  from  you  ! 

Smile,  mother,  smile  ! 


BABY   BUNN. 

Winsome  baby  Bunn  ! 
Milk-white  lilies  half  unrolled, 
Set  in  calyces  of  gold, 
Cannot  make  his  forehead  fair, 
With  its  rings  of  yellow  hair  ! 
Scarlet  berry  cleft  in  twain 
By  a  wedge  of  pe  Lrly  grain 
Is  the  mouth  of  baby  Bunn  ! 

Winsome  baby  Bunn  ! 

Weep,  mother,  weep, 
For  the  little  one  asleep 
With  his  head  against  your  breast  ! 
Never  in  the  coming  years, 
Though  he  seeks  for  it  with  tears, 
Will  he  find  so  sweet  a  rest. 
Oh  the  brow  of  baby  Bunn  ! 
Oh  the  scarlet  mouth  of  Bunn  ! 
One  must  wear  its  crown  of  thorns, 
Drink  its  cup  of  gall  must  one, 
Though  the  trembling  lips  shall  shrink 
White  with  anguish  as  they  drink, 
And  the  temple  sweat  with  pain 
Drops  of  blood  like  purple  rain  ! 

Weep,  mother,  weep  ! 

Winsome  baby  Bunn  ! 
Not  the  sea-shell's  palest  tinge, 
Not  the  daisy's  rose- white  fringe, 


BABY   BUNN. 

Not  the  softest,  faintest  glow 
Of  the  sunset  on  the  snow, 
Is  more  beautiful  and  sweet 
Than  the  wee  pink  hands  and  feet 
Of  the  little  baby  Bunn,  — 
Winsome  baby  Bunn  ! 
Feet  like  these  may  lose  the  way, 
Wandering  blindly  from  the  right. 
Pray,  and  sometimes  will  your  prayers 
Be  to  him  like  golden  stairs 
Built  through  darkness  into  light. 
Oh  the  dimpled  feet  of  Bunn, 
In  her  silken  stockings  dressed  ! 
Oh  the  dainty  hands  of  Bunn, 
Hid  like  rose-leaves  in  your  breast ! 
These  will  grasp  at  jewels  rare, 
But  to  find  them  empty  air ; 
These  shall  falter  many  a  day, 
Bruised  and  bleeding  by  the  way, 
Ere  they  reach  the  land  of  rest ! 
Pray,  mother,  pray  ! 

Home  Journal* 


LULLABY. 


LULLABY. 


CcoiE  to  my  arms,  you  bewildering  elf! 
Let  me  gather  you,  body  and  soul,  to  myself; 
Bury  your  seintillant  eyes  and  hair, 
And  all  the  glory  and  grace  you  wear, 
From  twinkling  feet  to  golden  crown  ; 
Clasping  you  close  to  my  bosom  and  heart, 
A  thing  of  my  holiest  being  a  part ; 
Crooning  a  song  in  olden  rhvme, 
Tender  and  sweet  as  a  vesper  chime. 

Sleep,  baby  boy : 

The  little  birds  rest, 
Downy  and  soft, 

In  the  mother-bird's  nest ; 
The  lambkins  are  safe 

In  the  shepherd's  warm  fold ; 
The  dew-drop's  asleep 

In  the  buttercup's  gold. 

The  violet  nods 

To  the  daisy's  dream  ; 
The  lily  lies  hushed 

On  the  lap  of  the  stream  ; 
And  holy  and  calm. 

Like  motherly  eyes, 
The  stars  look  down 

From  the  silent  skies. 


CRADLE    SONG. 

Sleep,  baby  boy, 

My  birdling,  my  flower, 
My  lily,  my  lambkin, 

My  dew-drop,  my  dower  ! 
While  heart  against  heart 

Beats  softly  in  time 
To  the  murmuring  flow 

Of  my  tender  old  rhyme. 


Mar?  Forrest 


CRADLE    SONG. 

What  is  the  little  one  thinking  about  ? 
Very  wonderful  things,  no  doubt : 
Unwritten  history  ! 
Unfathomed  mystery  ! 
Yet  he  chuckles  and  crows  and  nods  and  winks, 
As  if  his  head  were  as  full  of  kinks 
And  curious  riddles  as  any  sphinx  ! 
Warped  by  colic,  and  wet  by  tears, 
Punctured  by  pins,  and  tortured  by  fears, 
Our  little  nephew  will  lose  two  years  ; 
And  he'll  never  know 
Where  the  summers  go  : 
lie  need  not  laugh,  for  he'll  find  it  so. 


CRADLE    SOXG. 

Who  can  tell  what  a  baby  thinks? 
Who  can  follow  the  gossamer  links 

By  which  the  manikin  feels  his  way 
Out  from  the  shore  of  the  great  unknown,  — 
Blind  and  wailing  and  alone,  — 

Into  the  light  of  day  ? 
Out  from  the  shore  of  the  unknown  sea, 
Tossing  in  pitiful  agony ; 
Of  the  unknown  sea  that  reels  and  rolls, 
Specked  with  the  barks  of  little  souls  : 
Barks  that  were  launched  on  the  other  side, 
And  shipped  from  heaven  on  an  ebbing  tide  ! 

"What  does  he  think  of  his  mother's  eyes? 
"What  does  he  think  of  his  mother's  hair  ? 

What  of  the  cradle-roof,  that  flies 
Forward  and  backward  through  the  air? 

"What  does  he  think  of  his  mother"?  breast, 
Bare  and  beautiful,  smooth  and  white, 
Seeking  it  ever  with  fresh  delight, 

Cup  of  his  life,  and  couch  of  his  rest? 
What  does  he  think,  when  her  quick  embrace 
Presses  his  hand,  and  buries  his  face 
Deep  where  the  heart-throbs  sink  and  swell, 
With  a  tenderness  she  can  never  tell? 

Though  she  murmur  the  words 

Of  all  the  birds,— 
Words  she  has  learned  to  murmur  well  ? 
Xow  he  thinks  he'll  go  to  sleep  ! 
I  can  see  the  shadow  creep 


10  LULLABY. 

Over  his  eyes  in  soft  eclipse, 
Over  his  brow  and  over  his  lips, 
Out  to  his  little  finger-tips. 
Softly  sinking,  down  he  goes  ! 
Down  he  goes  !  down  he  goes  ! 
See  !  he's  hushed  in  sweet  repose. 

Dr.  J.  G.  Holland 


LULLABY. 

Now  the  twilight  shadows  flit ; 
Now  the  evening  lamp  is  lit ; 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 
Little  head  on  mother's  arm, 
She  will  keep  him  safe  from  harm ,  — 
Keep  him  safe,  and  fold  him  warm  ; 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 

Baby's  father,  far  away, 
Thinks  of  him  at  shut  of  day  ; 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 
He  must  guard  the  sleeping  camp, 
Hearkening,  in  the  cold  and  damp, 
For  the  foeman's  stealthy  tramp ; 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 


LULLABY.  11 

He  can  hear  the  lullaby, 

He  can  see  the  laughing  eve  ; 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 
And  he  knows,  though  we  are  dumb, 
How  we  long  to  have  him  come 
Back  to  baby,  mother,  home ; 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 

Xow  the  eyes  are  closing  up ; 
Let  their  little  curtains  drop  ; 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 
Softly  on  his  father's  bed 
Mother  lays  her  baby's  head ; 
There,  until  the  night  be  fled, 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 

God,  who  driest  the  widow's  tears, 
God,  who  calm'st  the  orphan's  fears, 

Guard  baby's  sleep  ! 
Shield  the  father  in  the  fray ; 
Help  the  mother  wait  and  pray ; 
Keep  us  all ,  by  night  and  day ; 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 

E.  J.  Cutler 


12  THE    OUTCASTS. 


THE  OUTCASTS. 

But  these  others,  —  children  small, 
Spilt  like  blots  about  the  city, 

Quay  and  street  and  palace-wall,  — 
Take  them  up  into  your  pity  ! 

Ragged  children,  with  bare  feet, 
"Whom  the  angels  in  white  raiment 

Know  the  names  of,  to  repeat 

"When  they  come  on  you  for  payment. 

Ragged  children,  hungry-eyed, 
Huddled  up  out  of  the  coldness 

On  your  door-steps,  side  by  side, 

Till  your  footman  damns  their  boldness. 

In  the  alleys,  in  the  squares, 

Begging,  lying  little  rebels  ; 
In  the  noisy  thoroughfares 

Struggling  on  with  piteous  trebles. 

Patient  children,  —  think  what  pain 

Makes  a  young  child  patient,  — ponder  ! 

Wronged  too  commonly  to  strain 
After  right,  or  wish,  or  wonder. 


THE    OUTCASTS.  13 

Wicked  children,  with  peaked  chins, 
And  old  foreheads  !  there  are  many 

With  no  pleasures  except  sins, 
Gambling  with  a  stolen  penny. 

Sickly  children,  that  whine  low 

To  themselves,  and  not  their  mothers, 

From  mere  habit,  — never  so 

Hoping  help  or  care  from  others. 

Healthy  children,  with  those  blue 

English  eyes,  fresh  from  their  Maker, 

Fierce  and  ravenous,  staring  through 
At  the  brown  loaves  of  the  baker. 

Can  we  smooth  down  the  bright  hair, 

O  my  sisters  !  calm,  unthrilled  in 
Our  heart's  pulses  ?     Can  we  bear 

The  sweet  looks  of  our  own  children, 

While  those  others,  lean  and  small, 

Scurf  and  mildew  of  the  city, 
Spot  our  streets,  convict  us  all, 

Till  we  take  them  into  pity? 

O  my  sisters  !  children  small, 

Blue-eyed,  wailing  through  the  city,  — 

Our  own  babes  cry  in  them  all : 
Let  us  take  them  into  pity  ! 

Mrs.  E.  B.  Browning 


14  TWO   SONS. 

TWO    SONS. 

I  have  two  sons,  wife, — 
Two,  and  yet  the  same ; 
Both  are  only  one,  wife, 
Bearing  but  one  name  : 
The  one  is  bearded,  sunburnt,  grim,  and  fights  across 

the  sea ; 
The  other  is  a  little  child,  who  sits  upon  your  knee. 

Only  one  is  here,  wife, 

Free  from  scath  and  harm  ; 
I  can  hear  his  voice,  wife, 
All  about  the  farm. 
The  other  is  a  great  strong  man,  wherever  he  may  be ; 
But  this  one,  shadowy  and  dim,  is  sitting  on  your  knee. 

One  is  fierce  and  cold,  wife, 

With  a  wayward  will ; 
He  has  passed  through  fire,  wife, 
Knowing  £rood  and  ill : 
He  has  tried  our  hearts  for  many  a  year,  —  not  broken 

them  ;  for  he 
Is  still  the  stainless  little  one  that  sits  upon  your  knee, 

One  did  wilful  wrong,  wife, 

Brin£in£  us  to  shame  ; 
Darkened  all  the  farm,  wife, 

Blotted  our  good  name  ; 


TWO    SONS.  15 

And  when  our  hearts  were  big  with  grief,  he  sailed 

across  the  sea,  — 
But  still  we  keep  the  little  son  that  sits  upon  your  knee. 

One  was  rash  and  dark,  wife, 

AVould  have  say  for  say ; 
Furious  when  chid,  wife, 
He  went  his  wilful  way  ; 
His  voice  in  sinful  rage  was  loud  within  the  farm  ;  but  he 
Remained  the  crowing  little  one  who  sat  upon  your 
knee. 

One  may  fall  in  fight,  wife,  — 

Is  he  not  our  son  ? 
Pray  with  all  your  heart,  wife, 
For  the  wayward  one  ; 
Pray  for  the  dark,  rough  soldier,  who  fights  across  the 

sea, 
Because  you  love  the  little  one  who  smiles  upon  your 
knee. 

One  in  sinful  fight,  wife, 
As  I  speak,  may  fall  ; 
But  this  one  at  home,  wife, 
Cannot  die  at  all. 
They  both  are  only  one  ;  and  how  thankful  we  should  be, 
That  we  cannot  lose  the  darling  son  who  sits  upon  your 
knee. 

Temple  Bar. 


lb*  CRADLE   SONG. 


CRADLE    SONG. 

Hush,  my  babe,  lie  still  and  slumber : 
Holy  angels  guard  thy  bed ; 

Heavenly  blessings  without  number, 
Gently  falling  on  thy  head. 

Sleep,  my  babe,  thy  food  and  raiment, 
House  and  home,  thy  friends  provide 

All  without  thy  care  or  payment, 
All  thy  wants  are  well  supplied. 

See  the  lovely  babe  a-dressing ; 

Lovely  infant,  how  he  smiled  ! 
When  he  wept,  the  mother's  blessing 

Soothed  and  hushed  the  Holy  Child. 

Lo,  he  slumbers  in  the  manger, 
Where  the  horned  oxen  fed  ! 

Peace,  my  darling ;  here's  no  danger  ; 
There's  no  oxen  near  thy  bed. 

Twaa  to  save  thee,  child,  from  dying, 
Save  my  dear  from  sin  and  shame, 

'Twas  to  lead  thee  home  to  heaven, 
That  thy  blest  Redeemer  came. 


FRANCES.  17 

May'st  thou  live  to  know  and  fear  him, 

Trust  and  love  him  all  thy  days  ; 
Then  go  dwell  for  ever  near  him, 

See  his  face,  and  sing  his  praise. 

I  could  give  thee  thousand  kisses, 

Hoping  what  I  most  desire  ; 
Not  a  mother's  fondest  wishes 

Can  to  greater  joys  aspire. 

i  Da.  Watts. 


FRANCES. 

She  is  not  pretty,  our  sweet  child  ; 

But  then  she  is  so  good  and  mild ; 

You  do  not  ask  the  hue  of  eyes 

Where  truest  love  in  ambush  lies, 

"Where  golden-hearted  Charity, 

And  lowliest  deep  Humility, 

And  all  Unselfishness  you  see. 

Her  pure  mind  is  so  beautiful, 

So  fond,  so  kind,  so  dutiful, 

Her  soul's  sweet  beauty  takes  all  praise, 

And  leaves  no  word  for  her  dear  face. 

Julie  Leonard. 


18  A   BEGGAR. 


A   BEGGAR. 

Poor  little  feet  on  the  pavement  bare, 
Sad  little  face  grown  hardened  with  care ; 
Scanty  the  clothing  around  the  wee  form, 
Searching  for  bread  in  this  pitiless  storm  ! 

Coldly  we  speak  to  the  wandering  thing, 
Scarring  the  tender  young  heart  by  our  sting,  — 
Poor  little  heart  that  is  yearning  to  be 
Caressed  like  the  darling  clinging  to  me. 

Think  ye,  when  Jesus  was  here  among  men, 
And  took  up  the  little  ones  brought  to  him  then, 
And  blessed  them  with  love  far  better  than  gold, 
The  poor  and  the  homeless  he  did  not  infold  ? 

Ah,  poor  little  child  !  unloved  but  by  him, 

Good  angels  defend  thee,  —  Christ  shrive  us  our  sin  ; 

Far  better  for  us  than  add  sorrow  to  thee, 

To  be  helplessly  cast  in  the  midst  of  the  sea. 

Gospel  Messenger. 


■pBsn 

n 


THE   CHILDREN'S   HOUR. 


UETWEEN  the  dark  and  the  daylight, 

When  the  niirht  is  be^innin^  to  lower, 
Comes  a  pause  in  the  day's  occupations 
That  is  known  as  the  Children's  Hour. 


I  hear  in  the  chamber  above  me 

The  patter  of  little  feet, 
The  sound  of  a  door  that  is  opened, 

And  voices  soft  and  sweet. 


From  my  study  I  see  in  the  lamplight, 

Descending  the  broad  hall  stair, 
Grave  Alice,  and  laughing  Allegra, 
And  Edith  with  srolden  hair. 


[21 


22  the  children's  hour. 

A  whisper,  and  then  a  silence  : 
Yet  I  know  by  their  merry  eyes 

They  are  plotting  and  planning  together 
To  take  me  by  surprise. 

A  sudden  rush  from  the  stairway, 
A  sudden  raid  from  the  hall ! 

By  three  doors  left  unguarded 
They  enter  my  castle-wall ! 

They  climb  up  into  my  turret, 

O'er  the  arms  and  back  of  my  chair  : 

If  I  try  to  escape,  they  surround  me ; 
They  seem  to  be  everywhere. 

They  almost  devour  me  with  kisses, 
Their  arms  about  me  entwine, 

Till  I  think  of  the  Bishop  of  Bingen, 
In  his  Mouse-Tower  on  the  Rhine  ! 

Do  you  think,  O  blue-eyed  banditti ! 

Because  you  have  scaled  the  wall, 
Such  an  old  moustache  as  I  am 

Is  not  a  match  for  you  all  ? 

I  have  you  fast  in  my  fortress, 
And  will  not  let  you  depart, 

But  put  you  down  into  the  dungeons 
In  the  round  tower  of  my  heart. 


LOVE   WOSDS.  23 

And  there  will  I  keep  you  for  ever, 

Yes,  for  ever  and  a  day, 
Till  the  walls  shall  crumble  to  ruin, 

And  moulder  in  dust  away  ! 

H.  W.  Longfellow. 


LOVE    WORDS. 

A  little  head,  with  its  golden  hair  ; 

A  little  face,  so  sweet  and  fair ; 

A  little  hand,  with  its  dimpled  grace,  — 

It  wanders  lovingly  over  my  face ; 

And  a  sweet  voice  whispers,  soft  and  low, 

"I  love  you,  sister, — I  love  you  so." 

It  is  dreary  outside,  —  the  wind  and  rain 

Sweep  sobbing  by,  like  a  funeral  train  : 

But  there's  light  within,  — my  heart  beats  high, 

I  heed  not  the  wild  wind's  wailing  cry, 

As  I  list  to  the  murmur  soft  and  low, 

"I  love  you,  sister,  —  I  love  you  so." 

Ah  !   what  is  fame  but  an  empty  show, 
Luring  us  on  through  fields  of  snow  ? 
Ah  !   what  is  wealth  but  a  glittering  chain, 
Linking  our  hearts  to  the  wind  and  rain, 
If  we  hear  not  murmured,  soft  and  low, 
The  sweet,  fond  words,  "I  love  you  so"? 


24  TO   A   CHILD   EMBRACING   HIS   MOTHER. 

w  I  love  you,  sister  !  "  —  ah  !  murmur  it  o'er  : 
They're  the  echoed  words  of  another  shore, 
Where  the  streets  are  gold  and  the  robes  are  white, 
"Where  there  comes  no  storm  with  its  bitter  blight, 
Where  many  hearts  we  have  missed  below 
Are  murmuring  still,  "We  love  you  so." 

Youth's  Companion. 


TO  A   CHILD   EMBRACING   HIS   MOTHER. 

Love  thy  mother,  little  one  ! 
Kiss  and  clasp  her  neck  again  : 
Hereafter  she  may  have  a  son 
Will  kiss  and  clasp  her  neck  in  vain. 
Love  thy  mother,  little  one  ! 

Gaze  upon  her  living  eyes, 
And  mirror  back  her  love  for  thee : 
Hereafter  thou  may'st  shudder  sighs 
To  meet  them  when  they  cannot  see. 
Gaze  upon  her  living  eyes  ! 

Press  her  lips,  the  while  they  glow, 
With  love  that  they  have  often  told  : 
Hereafter  thou  may'st  press  in  woe, 
And  kiss  them  till  thine  own  are  cold. 
Press  her  lips,  the  while  they  glow  ! 


POPPING   CORN.  25 

Oh,  revere  her  raven  hair  ! 
Although  it  be  not  silver  gray  : 
Too  early,  Death,  led  on  by  Care, 
May  snatch  save  one  dear  lock  away. 
Oh,  revere  her  raven  hair ! 

Pray  for  her  at  eve  and  morn, 
That  Heaven  may  long  the  stroke  defer  ; 
For  thou  may'st  live  the  hour  forlorn, 
When  thou  wilt  ask  to  die  with  her. 
Pray  for  her  at  eve  and  morn  ! 

Thomas  Hood. 


POPPING    CORN. 

One  autumn  night,  when  the  wind  was  high, 
And  the  rain  fell  in  many  flashes, 

A  little  boy  sat  by  the  kitchen  fire, 
A-popping  corn  in  the  ashes  : 

And  his  sister,  a  curly-haired  child  of  three, 

Sat  looking  on,  just  close  to  his  knee. 

Pop  !  pop  !   and  the  kernels,  one  by  one, 
Came  out  of  the  embers  flving ; 

The  boy  held  a  long  pine  stick  in  hand, 
And  kept  it  busily  plying  : 

He  stirred  the  corn,  and  it  snapped  the  more, 

And  faster  jumped  to  the  clean-swept  floor. 


26  THE    RABBIT   OX   THE    WALL. 

Part  of  the  kernels  flew  one  way, 

And  a  part  hopped  out  the  other ; 
Some  flew  plump  into  the  sister's  lap, 

Some  under  the  stool  of  the  brother  : 
The  little  girl  gathered  them  into  a  heap, 
And  called  them  "  a  flock  of  milk-white  Bheep." 

IIakper's  Magazine. 


THE   RABBIT   ON   THE   WALL. 

The  cottage  work  is  over, 

The  evening  meal  is  done  ; 
Hark  !  through  the  starlight  stillness 

You  hear  the  river  run. 
The  little  children  whisper, 

Then  speak  out  one  and  all  : 
Come,  father,  make  for  Johnny 

A  rabbit  on  the  wall. 

He  smilingly  assenting, 

They  gather  round  his  chair ; 
"Now,  grandma,  you  hold  Johnny  ; 

Don't  let  the  candle  flare."' 
So  speaking,  from  his  Angers 

He  throws  a  shadow  tall, 
That  seems,  the  moment  after, 

A  rabbit  on  the  wall. 


IX    THE    GARDEN.  '1  < 

The  children  shout  with  laughter, 

The  uproar  louder  growa  : 

Even  grandma  chuckles  faintly. 

And  Johnny  chirps  and  crows. 
There  ne'er  was  gilded  painting, 

Hung  up  in  lordly  hall, 
Gave  half  the  simple  pleasure 

This  rabbit  on  the  wall. 

Cathahixe  Allan 


IX    THE    GARDEN. 

Gkeex  grass  beneath,  green  leaves  above, 
That  rustle  like  a  running  stream  : 
And  sunshine  that,  witli  tender  gleam, 
Touches  the  little  heads  I  love,  — 

The  little  heads,  the  dewy  eyes 

That  shine  and  smile  through  sun  and  shower, 

That  are  my  portion  and  my  dower, 

My  sum  of  wealth  beneath  the  skies. 

The  white  doves  flutter  on  the  wall, 
Amid  the  rose-trees'  crimson  pride  : 
The  small  house  opes  its  windows  wide, 
Fearless,  whatever  may  befall. 


28  TV    THE    GARDEN. 

Whate'er  befalls  !  O  instinct  strong 
Of  this  strange  life,  so  sad  and  dear, 
That  still  foresees  some  coming  tear, 
And  of  its  joy  still  asks,  How  long? 

I  sit  and  rest  from  all  my  woe, 
Peace  in  the  air,  light  in  the  sky  ; 
Here  let  me  rest  until  I  die, 
Nor  further  pain  nor  pleasure  know. 

Half  on  the  tender  greensward  round, 
And  half  on  me,  as  here  I  rest, 
My  nestlings  nestle  in  their  nest, 
"With  fitful  arms  about  me  wound. 

The  while  I  read,  —  and  smile  to  see 
My  boy's  eye  light  with  gleams  of  war, 
How  the  plumed  helmet  of  Navarre 
Set  bleeding  France  at  Ivry  free  ; 

Or  in  my  little  maiden's  face,  — 
At  hearing  of  Lord  Burleigh's  bride, 
And  how  he  loved,  and  how  she  died,  - 
A  glow  of  softer  radiance  trace ; 

"While  the  small  brother  pauses  oft, 
In  babble  half  as  sweet  to  hear  ; 
The  meaning  lies  beyond  his  ear. 
But  sweet  the  music  chimes  and  soft. 


29 


If  there  be  any  cloud  that  glides 
Unseen  above  this  quiet  spot, 
Dear  Lord  !  I  thank  thee  I  know  not 
"What  still  in  thy  good  hand  abides. 

But  while  the  peaceful  moments  last, 
I  snatch  this  hour,  unstained  by  tears, 
Out  of  my  stormy  tale  of  years, 
To  charm  the  future  and  the  past. 

And  here  memorial  glad  I  raise, 
How,  on  one  joyous  day  in  June, 
Through  all  the  sunny  afternoon, 
Sang  birds  and  babes  unconscious  praise. 

M.  0.  W.  O. 


THE   WONDERFU'   WEAN. 

Our  wean's  the  most  wonderfu'  wean  e'er  I  saw  : 

It  would  tak  me  a  lang  simmer  day  to  tell  a* 

His  pranks,  frae  the  mornhv  till  night  shuts  his  ee, 

When  he  sleeps  like  a  peerie,  'tween  father  and  me  ; 
For  in  his  quite  turns  siccan  questions  he'll  speir  ! 
How  the  moon  can  stick  up  in  the  sky  that's  sae  clear  ? 
What  gars  the  wind  blaw  ?  and  whar  frae  comes  the 

rain  ? 
He's  a  perfec'  divert,  — he's  a  wonderfu'  wean  ! 


30  THE    W<)XI)i:iiFU'    WEAN. 

Or  wha  was  the  first  bodie's  father?  and  wha 
Made  tlie  vera  first  snaw-shooer  that  ever  did  fa'? 
And  wha  made  the  first  bird  that  sung  on  a  tree? 
And  the  water  that  sooms  a'  the  ships  in  the  sea? 
But,  after  I've  told  him  as  weel  as  I  ken, 
Again  he  begins  wi'  his  wha  and  his  when  ; 
And  lie  looks  aye  sae  wistful*  the  whiles  I  explain  : 
He's  as  anld  as  the  hills, — he's  an  anld-farrant  wean. 

And  folk  wha  hae  skill  o'  the  bumps  on  the  head 
Hint  there's  mac  ways  than  toilin'  o'  winnin'  ane's  bread  ; 
How  he'll  be  a  rich  man,  and  hae  men  to  work  for 

him, 
Wi'  a  kvte  like  a  baillie's,  shug-shuggin*  afore  him  ; 
Wi'  a  face  like  the  moon,  —  sober,  sonsy,  and  douce, 
And  a  back  for  its  bredth,  like  the  side  o'  a  house. 
'Tweel !    I'm   unco   ta'en   up  wi't, — they  mak   a'  sae 

plain. 
He's  just  a  town's  talk,  he's  a  by-ord'nar  wean  ! 

I  ne'er  can  forget  sic  a  laugh  as  I  gat, 

To  see  him  put  on  father's  waistcoat  and  hat ; 

Then  the  lang-leggit  boots  gaed  sae  far  owre  his  knees, 

The  tap-loops  wi'  his  fingers  he  grippit  wi'  ease  ; 

Then  he  marched  through  the  house  ;  he  marched  but, 

he  marched  ben, 
Like  owre  inony  mae  o'  our  great  little  men, 
That  I  leuch  clean  outright,  for  I  cou'dna  contain  : 
He  was  sic  a  conceit,  —  sic  an  ancient-like  wean  ! 


THE    WONDEEFU*   WEAN.  31 

But,  'mid  a'  his  daffin,  sic  kindness  he  shows, 

That  he's  dear  to  my  heart  as  the  dew  to  the  rose  ; 

And  the  unclouded  hinny-beam  aye  in  his  ee 

Maks  him  every  day  dearer  and  dearer  to  me. 

Though  Fortune  be  saucy  and  dorty  and  dour, 

And   gloom   through   her  fingers   like   hills  through   a 

shooer, 

When  bodies  hae  gat  a  bit  bairn  o'  their  ain, 

How   he   cheers   up   their  hearts  !  —  he's   a  wondcrfii' 

wean  ! 

Wm.  Miller. 


THE   BABY   SOLDIER. 


XOTHER  little  private 

Mustered  in 
The  army  of  temptation 

And  of  sin. 


Another  soldier  arming 

For  the  strife, 
To  fight  the  toilsome  battles 

Of  a  life. 


Another  little  sentry, 

Who  will  stand 
On  guard,  while  evils  prowl 

On  every  hand. 


[35] 


36  LITTLE    BIRDIE. 

Lord,  our  little  darling 

Guide  and  save, 
'Mid  the  perils  of  the  march 


To  the  grave  ! 


Pacific  Monthly. 


LITTLE   BIRDIE. 

WHAT  does  little  birdie  say 
In  her  nest  at  peep  of  day? 
"  Let  me  fly,"  says  little  birdie, 
"  Mother,  let  me  fly  away."  — 
"Birdie,  rest  a  little  longer, 
Till  the  little  wings  are  stronger." 
So  she  rests  a  little  longer, 
Then  she  flies  away. 

What  does  little  baby  say 
In  her  bed  at  peep  of  day  ? 
Baby  says,  like  little  birdie, 
"Let  me  rise,  and  fly  away."  — 
"Baby,  sleep  a  little  longer, 
Till  the  little  limbs  are  stronger. 
If  she  sleeps  a  little  longer, 
Baby  too  shall  fly  away." 


Tenntson. 


LITTLE    WHITE    LILY.  37 


LITTLE    WHITE    LILY, 

Little  white  Lily 

Sat  by  a  stone, 
Drooping  and  waiting 

'Till  the  sun  shone. 
Little  white  Lily, 

Sunshine  has  fed ; 
Little  white  Lily 

Is  lifting  her  head. 

Little  white  Lily 

Said,  "It  is  good  ; 
Little  white  Lily's 

Clothing  and  food." 
Little  white  Lily 

Drest  like  a  bride  ! 
Shining  with  whiteness, 

And  crowned  beside  ! 

Little  white  Lily 

Droopeth  with  pain, 
Waiting  and  waiting 

For  the  wet  rain. 
Little  white  Lily 

Holdeth  her  cup  ; 
Rain  is  fast  falling1 

And  filling  it  up. 


38  DEEDS    OF   KINDNESS. 

Little  white  Lily 

Said,  "  Good  again, 
When  I  am  thirsty 

To  have  nice  rain  ; 
Now  I  am  stronger, 

Now  I  am  cool ; 
Heat  cannot  burn  me, 

My  veins  are  so  full." 

Little  white  Lily 

Smells  very  sweet ; 
On  her  head  sunshine, 

Eain  at  her  feet. 
"Thanks  to  the  sunshine, 

Thanks  to  the  rain, 
Little  white  Lily 

Is  happy  again  !  " 


G.  MacDonald. 


DEEDS   OF   KINDNESS. 

Suppose  the  little  cowslip 

Should  hang  its  little  cup, 
And  say,  "I'm  such  a  tiny  flower 

I'd  better  not  grow  up," 
How  many  a  weary  traveller 

Would  miss  its  fragrant  smell ! 
How  many  a  little  child  would  grieve 

To  miss  it  from  the  dell ! 


DEEDS    OF   KIXDXESS.  39 

Suppose  the  glistening  dewdrop 

Upon  the  grass,  should  say, 
K  What  can  a  little  dewdrop  do  ? 

I'd  better  roll  away  ;  " 
The  blade  on  which  it  rested, 

Before  the  day  was  done, 
Without  a  drop  to  moisten  it, 

Would  wither  in  the  sun. 

Suppose  the  little  breezes, 

Upon  a  summer's  day, 
Should  think  themselves  too  small  to  cool 
•  The  traveller  on  his  way ; 
Who  would  not  miss  the  smallest 

And  softest  ones  that  blow, 
And  think  they  made  a  great  mistake 

If  they  were  talking  so  ? 

How  many  deeds  of  kindness 

A  little  child  may  do, 
Although  it  has  so  little  strength, 

And  little  wisdom  too  ! 
It  wants  a  loving  spirit 

Much  more  than  strength,  to  prove 
How  many  things  a  child  may  do 

For  others  by  his  love. 

Congreoatioxali8t. 


40  "i  AM  papa's.' 


I  AM   PAPA'S." 


Come,  Lily,  be  my  little  girl, 

And  love  me  every  day, 
And  I  will  give  you  pretty  birds, 

And  toys  with  which  to  play. 
She  glanced  up  with  her  sweet  gray  eyes, 

And  looked  into  my  face 
A  look  of  innocent  surprise ; 

Then  said,  with  modest  grace, 
"I  am  papa's,  and  even  in  play 
I  cannot  give  myself  away."  . 

"But  think,"  I  urged,  "how  many  things 

I'll  give  you  if  you  will : 
A  garden  full  of  rarest  flowers, 

Where  you  may  pick  your  fill." 
A  smile  played  on  her  dimpled  face, 

But  yet  she  answered  low,  — 
"Though  dearly  I  do  love  sweet  flowers, 

I'm  sure  I  cannot  go  : 
I  am  papa's,  and  even  in  play 
I  cannot  give  myself  away." 

"A  little  pony  you  shall  have, 

With  saddle  of  the  brightest  red ; 

And  every  day  with  grass  and  oats 
He  shall  by  your  own  hand  be  fed." 


SOXG   OF   THE    SUMMER    RAIX.  41 

Her  bright  eves  sparkled, — "I  should  like 

To  ride  that  pony  very  much, 
To  feed  him  all  myself,  and  find 

He  was  obedient  to  my  touch ; 
But  I'm  papa's,  and  even  in  play 

I  cannot  give  myself  away." 

"Dear  child,"  I  cried,  and  clasped  her  tight, 

"I'm  glad  you  love  your  father  so  ; 
But  there  is  One  whom  'twould  be  right 

To  love  even  dearer  still,  you  know. 
He  gives  you  all  your  daily  food ; 

Your  many  pleasures,  too,  he  gives  ; 
He  gave  that  loving  father  good,  — 

'Tis  due  to  God  that  he  still  lives. 
Dear  child,  oh  may  you  ever  say, 

*I  am  God's  child,'  and  him  obey." 

Julie  Leonard. 


SONG   OF   THE   SUMMER   RAIN. 

O  children  !  come  and  look  at  me  : 
Was  ever  rain  in  such  a  glee 

As  I  have  been  all  day? 
Drop  chasing  drop  most  merrily, 
Jostling  each  other  clumsily, 

You'd  think  we  were  in  play. 


42  SONG   OF   THE    SUMMER   RAIN. 

And  yet  see  how  much  work  we've  done, 
And  then  you'll  see  we're  not  in  fun, 

Whate'er  you  thought  before. 
We've  driven  the  sun  out  of  the  sky, 
Made  all  the  trees  and  bushes  ery, 

And  tightly  closed  the  door. 

We've  turned  the  dry  and  dusty  street, 
That  yesterday  was  parched  with  heat, 

Into  a  flowing  river. 
We've  made  the  flowers  all  hang  their  heads 
So  low  upon  their  rain-soaked  beds, 

I  fear  they  can't  recover. 

We've  given  a  shower-bath  to  the  cow  ; 
Where  are  the  birds  and  chickens  now  ? 

They're  hiding  one  and  all. 
Oh,  dear  !  what  will  the  farmers  say? 
We've  ruined  all  the  new-mown  hay 

By  our  unlucky  fall. 

"O  sweet,  refreshing  rain  !"  you  say, 
"Ah  !  soon,  too  soon,  you'll  pass  away  : 

Pray,  come  to  us  again." 
"When  I  am  sent,"  the  rain  replies  : 
"I  come  from  God  the  good  and  wise, 

Oh,  bless  him  for  the  rain  !  " 


THE   KITCHEN   CLOCK.  43 


THE   KITCHEN   CLOCK. 

Listex  to  the  kitchen  clock  ! 
To  itself  it  ever  talks, 
From  its  place  it  never  walks ; 
"  Tick-tock,  —  tick-tack." 
Tell  me  what  it  says. 

"  I'm  a  very  patient  clock, 

Never  moved  by  hope  or  fear, 
Though  I've  stood  for  many  a  year ; 
Tick-tock,  —  tick-tock." 
That  is  what  it  savs. 

"  I'm  a  very  truthful  clock  : 

People  say,  about  the  place, 
Truth  is  written  on  my  face ; 
Tick-tock,  —  tick-tock." 
That  is  what  it  says. 

"  I'm  a  very  active  clock  ; 

For  I  go  while  you're  asleep, 
Though  you  never  take  a  peep  ; 
Tick-tock,  —  tick  tock." 
That  is  what  it  says. 


44  LITTLE    LOTTY. 

.  K  I'm  a  most  obli^in^  clock ; 

If  you  wish  to  hear  me  strike, 
You  may  do  it  when  you  like ; 
Tick-tock,  —  tick-tock." 
That  is  what  it  says. 

What  a  talkative  old  clock ! 
Let  us  see  what  it  will  do 
When  the  pointer  reaches  two. 
w  Din^-dinof,  —  tick-tock." 
That  is  what  it  says. 


Aunt  Effie's  Rhymes. 


LITTLE   LOTTY. 

Little  Lotty  went  to  ma ; 

Ma  was  very  busy, 
Rocking  in  her  old  arm-chair 

Little  sister  Lizzie ; 
w  Go  to  sleep  my  pretty  one," 

Patiently  and  cheerly 
Sang  she  oft ;  for,  oh  !  she  loved 

Little  Lizzie  dearly. 

Soon  to  dream-land  Lizzie  went ; 

Then  that  happy  mother 
Thought  that  like  her  children  twain 

Never  was  another : 


LITTLE    LOTTY.  45 

Baby  was  so  cherub-like, 

Lotty  was  so  sprightly, 
Day  or  night  to  see  them  smile 

Made  her  heart  dance  lightly. 

Ah  !  but  why  o'er  Lotty's  brow 

Hangs  that  shade  of  sadness  ? 
Why,  in  rapture,  from  her  eye 

Beams  no  ray  of  gladness  ? 
Can  it  be  on  life's  rough  path 

One  so  young  hath  started  ? 
You  shall  hear  her  simple  tale,  — 

Lottv  is  true-hearted. 

j 

"  Dearest  ma,  as  Fred  and  I 

On  the  lawn  were  playing, 
Naughtily  I  took  a  stone 

In  the  pathway  lying. 
It  was  but  a  tiny  thing  : 

So  in  sport  I  aimed  it 
At  a  little  robin's  head  ; 

Hit  it  hard,  and  maimed  it. 

f' Soon  it  died.     '  Xow  let  us  haste 

Secretly,  and  throw  it 
O'er  the  hedge,'  said  cousin  Fred,  — 

1  Ma  will  never  know  it ; ' 
But  behind  your  pretty  vase 

Carefully  we  hid  it, 
Purposing,  when  found,  to  say 

Little  Tibby  did  it. 


46  LITTLE   LOTTY. 

"And  for  such  a  wicked  thought 

Now  my  heart  is  smitten, 
Though  poor  little  Tibby  be 

But  a  silly  kitten  ; 
And  I  cannot  sleep  to-night 

First  without  confessing. 
Do  you  think  that  God  again 

E'er  will  grant  his  blessing  ?  " 

Clasping  Lotty  to  her  heart 

Heaving  with  emotion, 
Lifting  up  her  eyes  to  heaven, 

Beaming  with  devotion  : 
"Yes,  my  child,"  she  softly  said, 

"  Go  to  him  in  sorrow  ; 
Tell  him  all,  and  joy  shall  be 

Thine  again  to-morrow." 

Little  reader,  when  in  fault, 

Never  seek  to  hide  it ; 
Always  to  the  God  above 

Faithfully  confide  it. 
He  is  ever  kind  and  good, 

Over  thee  and  near  thee  ; 
And,  though  every  friend  forsakes, 

He  will  wait  to  cheer  thee. 

Kev.  James  Knapton. 


THE    IDLE    GIRL.  47 


THE    IDLE     GIRL. 

O  sux,  bright  sun  !  come  out  of  the  sky, 
Put  your  hard  work  for  a  minute  by, 
Give  up  for  a  while  your  endless  round, 
And  come  and  play  with  me  on  the  ground. 
But  the  sun  said,  Xo. 

Wind,  cold  wind,  with  your  whistle  and  roar, 
Pray  do  not  toy  with  the  waves  any  more  ; 
Come  frolic  with  me,  that's  a  good  old  breeze, 
In  the  orchard  green,  'neath  the  apple-trees. 
But  the  breeze  said,  Xo. 

O  water  clear  !  as  you  flow  along, 
Come  close  to  my  feet,  and  sing  me  a  song ; 
Don't  go  for  ever  that  endless  way, 
But  pause  for  a  moment,  and  with  me  stay. 
But  the  stream  said,  No. 

Little  blue  bird,  on  the  high  tree-top, 
You  have  nothing  to  do,  and  you  will  stop ; 
I'll  show  you  a  way  to  build  a  nest, 
An  easy  way,  the  nicest  and  best. 

But  the  bird  said,  Xo. 


48  TWINKLE,    TWINKLE. 

Sun,  water,  and  wind,  and  bird,  say  no  ! 
I,  too,  to  my  task  will  quickly  go  : 
I  must  not  be  idle  alone  all  the  day ; 
But  when  my  work's  done,  can  I  come  and  play? 
And  they  all  said,  Yes. 

Caroline  Howard. 


TWINKLE,   TWINKLE. 

Twinkle,  twinkle,  little  star; 
How  I  wonder  what  you  are  ! 
Up  above  the  world  so  high, 
Like  a  diamond  in  the  sky. 

When  the  glorious  sun  is  set, 
When  the  grass  with  dew  is  wet, 
Then  you  show  your  little  light, 
Twinkle,  twinkle,  all  the  night. 

In  the  dark-blue  sky  you  keep, 
And  often  through  my  curtains  peep ; 
For  you  never  shut  your  eye 
Till  the  sun  is  in  the  sky. 

As  your  bright  and  tiny  spark 
Lights  the  traveller  in  the  dark, 
Though  I  know  not  what  you  are, 
Twinkle,  twinkle,  little  star ! 


A   NURSERY   SONG.  49 


A  NURSERY   SONG. 


As  I  walked  over  the  hills  one  day, 

I  listened,  and  heard  a  mother-sheep  say, 

"  In  all  the  green  world  there  is  nothing  so  sweet 

As  my  little  lammie,  with  his  nimble  feet, 

With  his  eye  so  bright, 

And  his  wool  so  white, 
Oh  !  he  is  my  darling,  my  heart's  delight. 

The  robin,  he 

That  sings  in  the  tree, 
Dearly  mav  dote  on  his  darlings  four ; 
But  I  love  my  one  little  lambkin  more." 
And  the  mother-sheep  and  her  little  one 
Side  by  side  lay  down  in  the  sun, 
And  they  went  to  sleep  on  the  hill-side  warm, 
While  my  little  lammie  lies  here  on  my  arm. 

I  went  to  the  kitchen,  and  what  did  I  see, 
But  the  old  gray  cat  and  her  kittens  three  ? 
I  heard  her  whispering  soft :  said  she, 
"My  kittens,  with  tails  all  so  cunningly  curled, 
Are  the  prettiest  things  that  can  be  in  the  world. 

The  bird  on  the  tree, 

And  the  old  ewe,  she, 
May  love  their  babies  exceedingly  : 

But  I  love  my  kittens  there, 

Under  the  rockinjr-chair. 


50  A   NURSERY   SOXG. 

I  love  my  kittens  with  all  my  might ; 

I  love  them  at  morning  and  noon  and  night ; 

Which  is  the  prettiest  I  cannot  tell,  — 

Which  of  the  three, 

For  the  life  of  me,  — 
I  love  them  all  so  well. 

Now  I'll  take  up  my  kitties,  — the  kitties  I  love, 
And  we'll  lie  down  together  beneath  the  warm  stove." 
Let  the  kitties  sleep  under  the  stove  so  warm, 
While  my  little  darling  lies  here  on  my  arm. 

I  went  to  the  yard,  and  I  saw  the  old  hen 
Go  clucking  about  with  her  chickens  ten. 
She  clucked  and  she  scratched  and  she  bristled  away, 
And  what  do  you  think  I  heard  her  say  ? 
I  heard  her  say,  "  The  sun  never  did  shine 
On  any  thing  like  to  these  chickens  of  mine. 
You  may  hunt  the  full  moon,  and  the  stars  if  you  please, 
But  you  never  will  find  such  ten  chickens  as  these. 
The  cat  loves  her  kittens,  the  ewe  loves  her  lamb, 
But  they  do  not  know  what  a  proud  mother  I  am ; 
For  lambs,  nor  for  kittens,  I  won't  part  with  these, 
Though  the  sheep  and  the  cat  should  go  down  on  their 
knees. 

No  !  no  !  not  though 
The  kittens  could  crow, 
Or  the  lammie  on  two  yellow  legs  could  go. 
My  dear  downy  darlings  !  my  sweet  little  things  ! 
Come  nestle,  now,  cosily  under  my  wings." 


THE   LITTLE   BOY   AXD   THE    STABS.  51 

So  the  hen  said, 

And  the  chickens  all  sped 
As  fast  as  they  could  to  their  nice  feather  bed. 
And  there  let  them  sleep  in  their  feathers  so  warm, 
"While  my  little  chick  nestles  here  on  my  arm. 


THE   LITTLE   BOY  AND   THE   STARS. 

You  little  twinkling  stars,  that  shine 

Above  my  head  so  high, 
If  I  had  but  a  pair  of  wings, 

I'd  join  you  in  the  sky. 

I  am  not  happy  lying  here, 

With  neither  book  nor  toy  ; 
For  I  am  sent  to  bed,  because 

I've  been  a  naughty  boy. 

If  you  will  listen,  little  stars, 

I'll  tell  you  all  I  did  : 
I  only  said  I  would  not  do 

The  thing  that  I  was  bid  ! 

I'm  six  years  old  this  very  day, 

And  I  can  write  and  read, 
And  not  to  have  my  own  way  yet 

Is  very  hard  indeed. 


1/2  THE   LITTLE   BOY    AND   THE    STARS. 

I  do  not  know  how  old  you  are, 

Or  whether  you  can  speak  ; 
But  you  may  twinkle  all  night  long, 

And  play  at  hide-and-seek. 

If  I  were  with  you,  little  stars, 

How  merrily  we'd  roll 
Across  the  skies,  and  through  the  clouds, 

And  round  about  the  Pole  ! 

The  moon,  that  once  was  round  and  full, 

Is  now  a  silver  boat ; 
We'd  launch  it  off  that  bri^ht-ed^ed  cloud, 

And  then  —  how  we  should  float ! 

Does  anybody  say,  "Be  still !" 

When  you  would  dance  or  play  ? 
Does  anybody  hinder  you 

When  you  would  have  your  way  ? 

Oh,  tell  me,  little  stars  !  for  much 

I  wonder  why  you  go 
The  whole  night  long,  from  East  to  West, 

So  patiently  and  slow?" 

w  We  have  a  Father,  little  child, 

Who  guides  us  on  our  way : 

We  never  question  ;  when  he  speaks, 

We  listen  and  obey." 

Aunt  Effie's  Rhymes. 


THE    OUT-DOOR    PARLOR.  53 


THE   OUT-DOOR   PARLOR. 

This  cricket  is  not  high  enough  ; 

Mother,  please  bring  a  chair  : 
How  prettily  these  curtains  hang, 

Parted  just  like  my  hair  ! 

Let  us  pretend  that  all  out-doors 
Is  one  great  drawing-room  : 

Our  carpet  is  so  white  and  clean, 
We'll  never  need  a  broom. 

The  sheet  of  ice  where  Willie  skates 
"Would  make  a  looking-glass, 

If  we  could  only  set  it  up 
"Where  all  the  people  pass. 

Oh,  what  a  window  we  have  now  ! 

The  sky  is  all  one  pane  : 
The  clouds  have  covered  it,  like  frost 

That  comes  instead  of  rain. 

Let  us  pretend  I've  just  got  up, 
An  hour  or  two  too  soon ; 

I  put  my  finger  on  the  frost, 
And  see  !  it  makes  the  moon  ! 


54  BABY  AND   MAMMA. 

0  mother  !  think  how  bright  'twould  be 
If  we  could  raise  it  all,  — 

If  we  could  only  raise  the  sash, 
And  never  let  it  fall. 

1  think  that  some  time  we  shall  £0 

Where  we  can  see  the  light, 
Where  all  the  world  will  be  out-doors 
And  there  will  be  no  night. 


BABY  AND   MAMMA. 

What  a  little  thing  am  I ! 

Hardly  higher  than  the  table ; 
I  can  eat  and  play  and  cry, 

But  to  work  I  am  not  able. 

Nothing  in  the  world  I  know, 

But  mamma  will  try  and  show  me ; 

Sweet  mamma,  I  love  her  so, 
She's  so  very  kind  unto  me. 

And  she  sets  me  on  her  knee 
Very  often  for  some  kisses  : 

Oh  !  how  good  I'll  try  to  be, 

For  such  a  dear  mamma  as  this  is  ! 


LITTLE    WILLIE    AND    THE    APPLE.  55 


LITTLE   WILLIE   AND   THE   APPLE. 

Little  Willie  stood  under  an  apple-tree  old, 
The  fruit  was  all  shining  with  crimson  and  gold, 
Hanging  temptingly  low,  — how  he  longed  for  a  bite  ! 
Though  he  knew,  if  he  took  one,  it  wouldn't  be  right. 

Said  he  :  "I  don't  see  why  my  father  should  say, 
'Don't  touch  the  old  apple-tree,  Willie,  to-day;' 
I   shouldn't   have    thought  —  now   thev're    hanging   so 

low 

When  I  asked  for  just  one,  he  would  answer  me  'No.' 

He  would  never  find  out,  if  I  took  but  just  one ; 
And  thev  do  look  so  good,  shining  out  in  the  sun  : 

J  DO 

There  are  hundreds  and  hundreds,  and  he  wouldn't  miss 
So  paltry  a  little  red  apple  as  this." 

He  stretched  forth  his  hand  ;  but  a  low,  mournful  strain 

Came  wandering  dreamily  over  his  brain  : 

In  his  bosom  a  beautiful  harp  had  long  laid, 

That  the  angel  of  conscience  quite  frequently  played. 

And  he  sung  :  "Little  Willie,  beware  !  oh,  beware  ! 
Your  father  has  gone,  but  your  Maker  is  there  : 
How  sad  you  would  feel,  if  you  heard  the  Lord  say, 
1  This  dear  little  boy  stole  an  apple  to-day ' !  " 


56  LITTLE    THINGS. 

Then  Willie  turned  round,  and,  as  still  as  a  mouse, 

CreJ)t  slowly  and  carefully  into  the  house ; 

In  his  own  little  chamber  he  knelt  down  to  pray 

That  the  Lord  would  forgive  him,  and  please  not  to  say, 

r  Little  Willie  almost  stole  an  apple  to-day." 

M.  A.  D. 


LITTLE   THINGS. 

Little  drops  of  water, 
Little  grains  of  sand, 

Make  the  mighty  ocean 
And  the  glorious  land. 

And  the  little  moments, 
Humble  though  they  be, 

Make  the  mighty  ages 
Of  eternity. 

So  our  little  errors 
Lead  the  soul  away 

From  the  paths  of  virtue, 
Oft  in  sin  to  stray. 

Little  deeds  of  kindness, 
Little  words  of  love, 

Make  our  earth  an  Eden, 
Like  the  heaven  above. 


THE   LADY-BUG.  57 


THE     LADY-BUG. 

The  lady-bug  sat  in  the  rose's  heart, 
And  smiled  with  pride  and  scorn, 

As  she  saw  a  plain-dressed  ant  go  by 
With  a  heavy  grain  of  corn. 

So  she  drew  her  curtains  of  damask  around, 

And  adjusted  her  silken  vest ; 
Making  her  glass  of  a  drop  of  dew 

That  lay  in  the  rose's  breast : 

Then  laughed  so  loud  that  the  ant  looked  up, 

And  seeing  her  haughty  face, 
Took  no  more  notice,  but  travelled  along 

At  the  same  industrious  pace. 

But  a  sudden  wind  of  autumn  came, 

And  rudely  swept  the  ground  ; 
And  down  the  rose  with  the  lady-bug  bent, 

And  scattered  its  leaves  around. 

Then  the  houseless  lady  was  much  amazed, 
For  she  knew  not  where  to  go  ; 

Since  cold  November's  surly  blast 
Had  brought  both  rain  and  snow. 


58  THE    VAIN   LITTLE    GIRL. 

Her  wings  were  wet,  and  her  feet  were  cold, 
And  she  thought  of  the  ant's  warm  cell ; 
And  what  she  did  in  the  wintry  storm, 
I'm  sure  I  cannot  tell. 

But  the  careful  ant  was  in  her  nest, 

With  the  little  ones  by  her  side  : 
She  taught  them  all  like  herself  to  toil, 

Nor  mind  the  sneer  of  pride. 

And  I  thought,  as  I  sat  at  the  close  of  day, 

Eating  my  bread  and  milk, 
It  was  wiser  to  work,  and  improve  the  time, 

Than  be  idle,  and  dressed  in  silk. 

Mrs.  Sigourney 


THE   VAIN   LITTLE    GIRL. 

What,  looking  in  the  glass  again ! 
Why  is  my  silly  child  so  vain  ? 
Do  you  think  yourself  as  fair 
As  the  gentle  lilies  are? 

Is  your  merry  eye  as  blue 
As  the  violets,  wet  with  dew? 
Yet  it  loves  the  best  to  hide 
By  the  hedge's  shady  side. 


SOFTLY,    SOFTLY,    LITTLE    CHILD.  59 

"When  your  cheek  the  brightest  glows, 
Is  it  redder  than  the  rose  ? 
But  the  rose's  buds  are  seen 
Almost  hid  with  moss  and  green. 

Little  flowers,  that  open  gay, 
Peeping  forth  at  break  of  day, 
In  the  garden,  hedge,  or  plain, 
Do  you  think  that  they  are  vain? 


SOFTLY,   SOFTLY,   LITTLE    CHILD. 

Softly,  softly,  little  child  ; 

Do  not  wear  that  angry  brow  ; 
Do  not  speak  that  naughty  word  : 

Angcl-steps  are  near  thee  now. 

Softly,  softly,  little  child, 
Drive  thy  passions  far  away, 

And  thy  angel  visitants 

Close  will  fold  their  wings  and  stay. 

Softly,  softly,  little  child, 

Drop  the  penitential  tear  : 
Angels  catch  it  ere  it  falls,  — 

Bear  it  up  to  heaven  from  here. 


60  INDUSTRY. 

Softly,  softly,  little  child, 

Are  the  son^s  of  angels  blent : 
©  © 

Joyous  are  the  strains  above, 

O'er  the  child  that  doth  repent. 

Julie  Leoxakd 


INDUSTRY. 

How  doth  the  little  busy  Bee 
Improve  each  shining  hour, 

And  gather  honey  all  the  day 
From  every  opening  flower  ! 

How  skilfully  she  builds  her  cell ! 

How  neat  she  spreads  her  wax  ! 
And  labors  hard  to  store  it  well 

With  the  sweet  food  she  makes. 

In  works  of  labor  or  of  skill 

I  would  be  busy  too  ; 
For  Satan  finds  some  mischief  still 

For  idle  hands  to  do. 

In  books  or  work  or  healthful  play 
Let  my  first  years  be  passed  ; 

That  I  may  give,  for  every  day, 
Some  good  account  at  last. 


Isaac  Watts. 


IF   I   WERE   A   SUNBEAM.  61 

IF   I  WERE   A   SUNBEAM. 

"If  I  were  a  sunbeam, 

I  know  what  I'd  do  : 
I  would  seek  white  lilies 

Rainy  woodlands  through. 
I  would  steal  among  them  : 

Softest  light  I'd  shed, 
Until  every  lily 

Raised  its  drooping  head. 

"If  I  were  a  sunbeam, 

I  know  where  I'd  go,  — 
Into  lowliest  hovels, 

Dark  with  want  and  woe  ; 
Till  sad  hearts  looked  upward, 

I  would  shine  and  shine  ! 
Then  they'd  think  of  heaven, 

Their  sweet  home  and  mine." 

"Art  thou  not  a  sunbeam, 

Child,  whose  life  is  glad 
With  an  inner  radiance 

Sunshine  never  had  ? 
Oh,  as  God  hath  blessed  thee, 

Scatter  rays  divine  ! 

For  there  is  no  sunbeam 

But  must  die  or  shine." 

Lucy  Larcom 


62  THE   DIRTY   OLD   MAN. 


THE   DIRTY   OLD  MAN. 

In  a  dirty  old  house  lived  a  dirty  old  man  : 
Soap,  towel,  or  brushes  were  not  in  his  plan  ; 
For  forty  long  years,  as  the  neighbors  declared, 
His  house  never  once  had  been  cleaned  or  repaired. 

'Twas  a  scandal  and  shame  to  the  business-like  street, 
One  terrible  blot  in  a  ledger  so  neat ; 
The  shop  full  of  hardware,  but  black  as  a  hearse, 
And  the  rest  of  the  mansion  a  thousand  times  worse. 

Outside,  the  old  plaster,  all  spatter  and  stain, 
Looked  spotty  in  sunshine,  and  streaky  in  rain  ; 
The  window-sills  sprouted  with  mildewy  grass, 
And  the  panes,  from  being  broken,  were  known  to  be 
glass. 

On  the  rickety  sign-board  no  learning  could  spell 
The  merchant  who  sold,  or  the  goods  he'd  to  sell ; 
But  for  house  and  for  man  a  new  title  took  growth 
Like  a  fungus,  —  the  Dirt  gave  its  name  to  them  both. 

Within  there  were  carpets  and  cushions  of  dust, 
The  wood  was  half  rot,  and  the  metal  half  rust ; 
Old  curtains,  half  cobwebs,  hung  grimly  aloof: 
'Twas  a  spider's  Elysium  from  cellar  to  roof. 


GENERAL   WASHINGTON.  $3 

There,  King  of  the  Spiders,  the  dirty  old  man 
Lives  busy  and  dirty  as  ever  he  can, 
With  dirt  on  his  fingers  and  dirt  on  his  face ; 
For  the  dirty  old  man  thinks  the  dirt  no  disgrace. 

William  Allingham 


GENERAL   WASHINGTON. 

WHEN  General  Washington  was  young, 

About  as  large  as  I, 
He  never  would  permit  his  tongue 

To  tell  a  wilful  lie. 

Once,  when  he  cut  his  father's  tree, 

Pie  owned  it  to  his  face ; 
And  then  his  father  ardently 

Clasped  him  in  his  embrace. 

He  told  his  son  it  pleased  him  more 

To  find  him  own  the  truth, 
Than  if  his  tree  were  bendimr  o'er 

With  rich  and  golden  fruit. 

Then  like  this  good  and  noble  youth, 

Whose  virtues  ever  shone, 
III  seek  the  paths  of  love  and  truth, 

And  all  my  faults  will  own. 


64  THE    ROBIN'S    SECRET. 


THE   ROBIN'S   SECRET. 

I'm  little  Robin  Red-breast,  sir; 

My  nest  is  in  the  tree ; 
If  you  look  up  in  yonder  elm, 

My  pleasant  home  you'll  see. 
We  made  it  very  soft  and  nice,  — 

My  pretty  mate  and  I ; 
And  all  the  time  we  worked  at  it, 

We  sang  most  merrily. 

The  green  leaves  shade  our  little  home 

From  the  hot,  scorching  sun; 
So  many  birds  live  in  the  tree, 

We  do  not  want  for  fun. 
The  light  breeze  gently  rocks  our  nest, 

And  hushes  us  to  sleep  ; 
We're  up  betimes  to  sing  our  song, 

And  the  first  daylight  greet. 

I  have  a  secret  I  would  like 

The  little  girls  to  know ; 
But  I  won't  tell  a  single  boy,  — 

They  rob  the  poor  birds  so. 
We  have  four  pretty  little  nests, 

We  watch  them  with  great  care  ; 
Full  fifty  eggs  are  in  this  tree, — 

T)on't  tell  the  boys  they're  here. 


THE    CHERRY-TREE.  65 

Joe  Thomson  robbed  the  nest  last  year, 

And  year  before,  Tom  Brown ; 
I'll  tell  it  loud  as  I  can  sing, 

To  every  one  in  town. 
Swallow  and  sparrow,  lark  and  thrush, 

Will  tell  you  just  the  same  : 
To  make  us  all  so  sorrowful, 

Ah,  isn't  it  a  shame  ! 

And  did  you  hear  the  concert 

This  morning  from  our  tree  ? 
We  give  it  every  morning, 

Just  as  the  clock  strikes  three. 
"We  praise  our  great  Creator, 

Whose  holy  love  we  share  : 

Dear  children,  learn  to  praise  him  too, 

For  all  his  tender  care. 

Penny  Gazette. 


THE    CHERRY-TREE. 

The  good  Lord  to  the  Spring  once  said, 
"The  little  worm's  table  now  spread." 
Then  quick  was  a  cherry-tree  seen, 
Covered  with  leaves  all  fresh  and  irreen. 
The  little  worm  waked  from  his  lonji  winter  nijjht, 
And,  rubbing  his  eyes  at  the  sight  of  the  light, 


G6  THE    CHERRY-TREE. 

Placed  himself  at  his  table  (needing  no  chair) , 
And  with  quick-tooth  appetite  gnawed  here  and  there. 
"  Oh,  how  sweet  are  these  leaves  !  "  the  little  worm  said  ; 
"  One  would  hardly  go  back  to  one's  cold  winter  bed." 

The  good  Lord  to  the  Spring  then  said, 

"The  little  bee's  table  now  spread." 

A  perfume  sweet  then  filled  the  air, 

Tempting  the  bee  with  blossoms  fair. 
The  little  bee  wakes  with  the  first  morning  light, 
And  swift  to  the  cherry-tree  hastens  his  flight : 
K  Ah  !  here  is  my  coffee  in  cups  porcelain," 
Says  the  little  bee,  smelling  and  smelling  again. 
Then  he  puts  in  his  tongue,  but  could  scarcely  eat, 
It  wagged   so   with   talking :   "  How  sweet !   oh,  how 

sweet ! 
Sure  sugar  is  cheap,"  says  he,  drinking  his  fill 
From  the  clean  china  cups,  —  then  flew  o'er  the  hill. 

The  good  Lord  then  to  Summer  said, 
"  The  small  sparrow's  table  now  spread." 
The  good  tree  then  her  blossoms  cast, 
And  spread  the  sparrow's  rich  repast. 
In  place  of  the  flowers  where  the  little  bee  fed, 
Came  thousands  of  cherries,  so  fresh  and  so  red  ; 
And  the  sparrow  said,  "Is  it  so  meant  indeed? 
I'll  be  seated  then  soon,  —  no  second  call  need. 
In  marrow  and  bone  will  this  fruit  make  me  strong, 
And  strengthen  my  throat  for  a  new,  sweeter  song." 


THE    TIRED    BOY.  67 

To  Autumn,  then  the  good  Lord  said, 

ft  Clear  off  the  table,  —  all  are  fed." 
Then  hoar-frost  came  up  from  his  icy  abode ; 
And  the  rude  autumn  blasts  on  the  storm-cloud  rode ; 
And  the  wild  winds  moaned,  as  the  leaves  flew  around, 
tr  What   comes   from   the    dust   must   go    back   to    the 
ground." 

Then  to  Winter,  he  said,  to  close  up  the  scene, 
f'  Cover  up  what  is  left  with  a  napkin  clean  ;  " 
And  he  bade  the  storm-cloud,  that  doeth  his  will, 
And  he  spread  his  white  robe  on  valley  and  hill. 


THE   TIRED   BOY. 

A  boy  went  into  the  pleasant  fields 
For  the  purpose  of  taking  a  walk ; 

But  soon  he  grew  tired,  and  this  was  the  way 
That  the  urchin  began  to  talk  : 

"I  can't  stir  another  step,"  said  he, 

"  If  something  only  would  carry  me  !  " 

There  flowed  a  little  brook  rippling  along, 
And  that  took  him  up  in  a  trice  ; 

So  right  on  the  water  he  sat  himself  down, 
And  said,  "Xow,  this  is  nice." 


C8  THE   TIRED   BOY. 

But  what  do  you  think?     The  brook  was  cold, 
lie  felt  half-frozen,  and  out  he  rolled  ; 
And,  "I'm  sure  I  can't  go  so,"  said  he, 
"  If*  something  would  but  carry  me  !  " 

Then  a  nice  little  boat  came  sailing  by, 

And  the  boy  got  into  that ; 
lie  sat  himself  down  in  the  midst  of  the  skiff, 

And  said,  "Now  this  comes  pat." 
But  what  do  you  think?     The  boat  was  small, 
And  the  boy  was  afraid  he  should  get  a  fall. 
So,  "I'm  sure  I  can't  go  so,"  said  he, 
"If  something  only  would  carry  me  !  " 

Then  a  poor  snail  came  creeping  along, 

And  the  boy  got  upon  his  shell ; 
He  sat  himself  down,  and  crossed  his  legs, 

And  said,  "This  suits  me  well." 
But  what  do  you  think?     The  snail  was  slow, 
And  the  boy  grew  tired  of  creeping  so  ; 
And,  "This  is  no  way  to  go,"  said  he, 
"  If  somebody  only  would  carry  me  !  " 

Then  came  a  horseman  galloping  by, 
And  he  to  carry  the  boy  would  try  : 
So  the  child  sat  down  on  the  horse  behind, 
And  said,  "This  exactly  suits  my  mind." 
But  what  came  next?     The  horse  went  fast, 
Much  too  quick  for  the  youngster's  taste  : 


CHOOSING   A   NAME.  'I'.' 

He  was  tossed  about,  now  here,  now  there, 
Till  half  the  time  he  was  up  in  the  air  ; 
And,  r  Oh,  I  can't  go  so,"  cried  he, 
t:  If  something  only  would  carry  me  ! " 

Then  a  tree  stuck  its  branches  into  his  hair, 

And  carried  my  gentleman  up  in  the  air. 

It  hung  him  up  on  the  highest  bough, 

And  there  is  the  little  bov  hanomn  now  ; 

So  to-morrow  the  children  shall  come  with  me, 

And  we  will  go  shake  him  down  from  the  tree. 

From  the  German*. 


CHOOSING  A  NAME. 

I  have  seen  my  new-born  sister ; 
I  was  nigh  the  first  that  kissed  her. 
When  the  nursing-woman  brought  her 
To  papa,  — his  infant  daughter,  — 
How  papa's  dear  eyes  did  glisten  ! 
She  will  shortly  be  to  christen  ; 
And  papa  has  made  the  offer, 
I  shall  have  the  naming  of  her. 

Xow  I  wonder  what  would  please  her : 
Charlotte,  Julia,  or  Louisa? 
Ann  and  Mary,  they're  too  common  ; 
Joan's  too  formal  for  a  woman ; 


THE    LITTLE    TREE 

Jane's  a  prettier  name  beside, 
But  we  had  a  Jane  that  died. 
They  would  say,  if  'twas  Rebecca, 
That  she  was  a  little  Quaker. 
Edith's  pretty,  but  that  looks 
Better  in  old  English  books  ; 
Ellen's  left  off  long  ago  ; 
Blanche  is  out  of  fashion  now. 
None  that  I  have  named  as  yet 
Are  so  good  as  Margaret. 
Emily  is  neat  and  fine ; 
What  do  you  think  of  Caroline  ? 
How  I'm  puzzled  and  perplexed 
What  to  choose  or  think  of  next ! 
I  am  in  a  little  fever 
Lest  the  name  that  I  should  give  her 
Should  disgrace  her  or  defame  her : 
I  will  leave  papa  to  name  her. 


Mary  Lamb. 


THE   LITTLE   TREE. 

A  little  tree  grew  in  a  wood, 
The  place  itself  was  very  good, 
But  shrubs  and  trees  grew  round  about, 

And  many  a  bush  beside  : 
They  grew  so  close,  that  they  were  pushed 

And  squeezed  on  every  side ; 


THE    LITTLE    TREE.  71 

And  our  little  tree  was  bowed, 

And  pressed  together  in  the  crowd. 

The  tree  considered  with  itself, 

And  came  to  this  conclusion, 

"  I  shan't  stay  here  another  day, 

I  don't  like  such  confusion  ! 

I  mean  to  find  a  better  place, 

Away  from  all  these  folks, 

Where  not  a  beech  nor  birch  tree  grows, 

And  neither  pines  nor  oaks  ; 
"Where  I  can  plant  myself  at  ease, 
And  dance  about  just  as  I  please." 

With  these  remarks,  the  tree  set  forth, 

And  found  out  presently 
A  nice  place  in  the  meadow-land 

Without  a  single  tree  ; 
And  there  it  planted  itself  out, 
And  danced  its  branches  all  about. 
If  one  were  looking  for  a  place, 

A  better  could  not  be  : 
A  charming  little  rivulet 

Ran  right  up  to  the  tree  ; 
And,  if  the  tree  was  in  a  heat, 
The  rippling  water  cooled  its  feet. 
If  the  tree  was  cold,  the  sunlight 

Shone  warm  upon  the  place, 
And  a  fresh  wind  blew  round  about 

This  pleasant  open  space, 


72  THE    LITTLE    TREE. 

And  used  its  bellows  merrily 
To  help  the  dancing  of  the  tree. 

All  summer  long  our  little  friend 

Went  dancing  up  and  down, 
Till  at  last  in  a  very  lively  dance 

It  lost  its  leafy  crown. 
Down  fell  the  leaves,  —  a  sight  to  see  ; 
Not  one  was  left  upon  the  tree. 
Some  fell  into  the  water, 

And  some  flew  into  the  sun ; 
And  the  wind  blew  off  the  rest  of  them, 

And  scattered  every  one. 

When  autumn  came,  and  it  grew  cold, 

The  tree  began  to  freeze : 
It  called  the  brook,  and  said,  "  Give  back 

My  leaves  now,  if  you  please  ; 
For,  in  this  keen  and  frosty  air, 
I  want  a  winter  dress  to  wear." 
But  the  brook  said,  "I  cannot  give 

Your  leaves  back,  little  tree, 
I  soon  sucked  in  —  in  fact,  I  drowned  — 

All  those  that  fell  on  me." 

Then  to  the  sunshine,  said  the  tree, 
"Prithee,  give  back  my  leaves  to  me  ! 
I'm  freezing  in  this  blast/' 
But  the  sun  answered,  "  Not  so  fast. 


THE    LITTLE    TKEE.  73 

Such  of  your  leaves  as  fell  to  me 

Are  gone,  you  understand  ; 
For,  as  I  held  them  for  a  while, 

They  scorched  in  my  hot  hand." 

Then  hastily  the  tree  addressed 

The  free  wind  blowing  by, 
Saying,  "Beseech  you,  give  my  leaves 

To  me,  or  I  shall  die." 
But  the  wind  answered,  like  the  sun, 
"  I'm  sorry,  but  it  can't  be  done  ; 
For  I  blew  all  your  leaves  one  day 
Over  the  hills  and  far  away." 

Then  softly  said  the  little  tree, 

"  I  know  what  I  will  do  ! 
I'll  go  back  to  the  wood  again 

Where  in  old  times  I  grew 
And,  where  the  trees  grow  close  together, 
Get  shelter  from  this  bitter  weather." 
So  off  it  set,  and  fast  it  ran 

Till  to  the  wood  it  came  ; 
It  saw  the  trees  stand  close  and  thick, 

And  longed  to  do  the  same. 
It  asked  the  first  tree  it  could  see, 
"  Pray,  have  you  any  room  for  me  ?  " 
K  No  :  not  a  corner  !  "  said  the  tree. 
It  asked  the  next  tree  standing  there, 
But  that  had  not  an  inch  to  spare. 


THE    LITTLE    TREE. 

It  went  from  tree  to  tree  in  vain, — 
It  could  not  find  a  place  again ; 
In  summer  they  stood  close  together, 
And  closer  still  in  the  cold  weather. 
Of  no  avail  were  pains  and  care,  — 
Our  tree  could  get  no  entrance  there, 
And,  without  any  clothes  to  wear, 
Went  sorrowful  away. 

Just  then  a  peasant  passed  along 

With  an  axe  upon  his  shoulder, 
Rubbing  his  hands  as  if  he  thought 

The  davs  were  growing  colder  : 
"  There  !  "  said  our  lively  little  tree, 
*'  That  is  the  very  man  for  me  ! 
He  is  a  wood-cutter,  I  see, 

I  hail  him  as  a  brother." 
Quickly  it  spoke,  "My  friend  !  look  you 
I'm  freezing,  and  you're  freezing  too ; 
Now  each  of  us  can  help  the  other, 

And  do  himself  no  harm  : 
Up  with  your  axe,  and  cut  me  down  ; 
Then  light  your  fire,  and  lay  me  on, 

And  we  shall  both  be  warm." 

The  wood-cutter  was  nowise  slow 

To  follow  such  advice  : 
He  heaved  his  axe,  and  dealt  a  blow 
That  lay  the  trunk  and  branches  low 

Before  him  in  a  trice. 


fathkbTs  sioex. 

Ai  :  :^i:  ir   Ai" -A  i:  :■:  A^  -m 

rl-r    Til  11_"1~    lr    fll'inl    7'r-'.  .11  It  . 

T.i-rn  ::•: ^  i:  i  11-:.  —  111 :.    . .:  :  ~  :::. 
He  put  it  on  the  fire. 

Tir  Ai_iin  lir*:-^   ::    A  A-  ::r: 
He  chanced  to  bring1  to  osy  too  see : 
So  put  it  on?  "twifl  make  a  blaze, 
And  cook  oar  sapper  many  days. 

BE   QeEX-lX. 


fatz.il  s  stilt. 

Ljttle  one,  come  to  mj  knee  ? 

Zi:V  i-  At  :■•:- 
■>• t7  :i.r  ::•::'.  11  :i_r 

An:  Ai  --mi  in  Af  ~  :•:•!=  i  :•.  m:  ! 


ni-.i.  n_    ii i__i_*.   in:  —  -i-ii  : 
Then  pa j  fer  the  stoij  with 

FiA-ei  "- 1.«  .:-!  ii  ii:  -  i.ii-Aia  i._n. 
Ii   ;i~:  fill,  i  -::m  1.5  AA  :- 


Ei,A  17     1  Av  I1-A7 

Where  the  wild  men  watched  and  waited: 

W   >r-  A  :  1 1  :'.;■—'.  mi  ".eiir?  11  A-: 

Ai  '.  I     11  117  niii  AA:A. 


76  father's  story. 

The  rain  and  the  night  together 

Came  down,  and  the  wind  came  after, 

Bending  the  props  of  the  pine-tree  roof, 
And  snapping  many  a  rafter. 

I  crept  along  in  the  darkness, 

Stunned  and  bruised  and  blinded,  — 

Crept  to  a  fir  with  thick-set  boughs, 
And  to  a  sheltering  rock  behind  it. 

There,  from  the  blowing  and  raining 
Crouching,  I  sought  to  hide  me  : 

Something  rustled,  two  green  eyes  shone, 
And  a  wolf  lay  down  beside  me. 

Little  one,  be  not  frightened  : 

I  and  the  wolf  together, 
Side  by  side,  through  the  long,  long  night, 

Hid  from  the  awful  weather. 

His  wet  fur  pressed  against  me ; 

Each  of  us  warmed  the  other  : 
Each  of  us  felt,  in  the  stormy  dark, 

That  beast  and  man  was  brother. 

And  when  the  falling  forest 
No  longer  crashed  in  warning, 

Each  of  us  went  from  our  hiding-place, 
Forth  in  the  wild,  wet  morning. 


GOOD-NIGHT   AND   GOOD-MORNING.  77 


Now,  darling,  kiss  me  in  payment, 
And  hark  how  the  wind  is  roaring 

Surely  home  is  a  better  place 
When  stormy  rain  is  pouring  ! 


D 


Bayard  Taylor 


GOOD-NIGHT  AND   GOOD-MORXING. 

A  fair  little  girl  sat  under  a  tree, 

Sewing  as  long  as  her  eyes  could  see  ; 

Then  smoothed  her  work,  and  folded  it  right, 

And  said,  "Dear  work,  good-night !  good-night ! 

Such  a  number  of  rooks  came  over  her  head, 
Crying,  "  Caw  !  caw  !  "  on  their  way  to  bed  ; 
She  said,  as  she  watched  their  curious  flight, 
R  Little  black  things,  good  night !  good  night !  " 

The  horses  neighed,  and  the  oxen  lowed, 

The  sheep's  "  Bleat !  bleat !  "  came  over  the  road, 

All  seeming  to  say,  with  a  quiet  delight, 

"  Good  little  oirl,  p-ood-ni^ht !   pr>od-nio;ht !  " 

She  did  not  say  to  the  sun  "  Good-night !  " 
Though  she  saw  him  there,  like  a  ball  of  light ; 
For  she  knew  he  had  God's  time  to  keep 
All  over  the  world,  and  never  could  sleep. 


iO  THE    FIRST   GRIEF. 

The  tall  pink  foxglove  bowed  his  head, 
The  violets  curtsied,  and  went  to  bed  ; 
And  good  little  Lucy  tied  up  her  hair, 
And  said,  on  her  knees,  her  favorite  prayer. 

And,  while  on  her  pillow  she  softly  lay, 

She  knew  nothing  more  till  again  it  was  day, 

And  all  things  said  to  the  beautiful  sun, 

K  Good-mornin<r  !  good-morning  !  our  work  is  begun  ! '; 

BlCHARD     MONKTON    MlKNES. 


THE   FIRST   GRIEF. 

ff  On,  call  my  brother  back  to  me  ! 
I  cannot  play  alone  ! 
The  summer  comes  with  flower  and  bee,  — 
Where  is  my  brother  gone  ? 

The  butterfly  is  glancing  bright 

Across  the  sunbeam's  track  : 
I  care  not  now  to  chase  its  flight,  - 

Oh,  call  my  brother  back  ! 

The  flowers  run  wild,  — the  flowers  we  sowed 

Around  our  garden-tree  ; 
Our  vine  is  drooping  witli  its  load, — 

Oh,  call  him  back  to  me  !  " 


THE    BIRD.  79 

"He  would  not  hear  my  voice,  dear  child ; 
He  may  not  come  to  thee  : 
The  face  that  once  like  spring-time  smiled 
On  earth  no  more  thou'lt  see. 

The  rose's  brief,  bright  life  of  joy, 

Such  unto  him  was  given  : 
Go,  thou  must  play  alone,  my  boy  ! 

Thy  brother  is  in  heaven." 

"And  has  he  left  his  birds  and  flowers? 
And  must  I  call  in  vain  ? 
And  through  the  long,  long  summer  hours, 
Will  he  not  come  again  ? 

And  by  the  brook,  and  in  the  glade, 

Are  all  our  wanderings  o'er? 

Oh,  while  my  brother  with  me  played, 

Would  I  had  loved  hini  more  !  " 

Mrs.  Hemans 


THE    BIRD 

Birdie,  birdie,  will  you  pet? 
Summer  is  far  and  far  away  yet. 
You'll  have  silken  quilts  and  a  velvet  bed, 
And  a  pillow  of  satin  for  your  head  !  " 


80  THE   BIRD. 

w  I'd  rather  sleep  in  the  ivy  wall ; 
No  rain  comes  through,  though  I  hear  it  fall ; 
The  sun  peeps  gay  at  dawn  of  day, 
And  I  sing,  and  wing  away,  away  !  " 

"  O  birdie,  birdie  !  will  you  pet? 
Diamond-stones  and  amber  and  jet 
We'll  string  on  a  necklace  fair  and  fine, 
To  please  this  pretty  bird  of  mine  !  " 

"  Oh  !  thanks  for  diamonds,  and  thanks  for  jet ; 
But  here  is  something  daintier  yet,  — 
A  feather  necklace  round  and  round, 
That  I  wouldn't  sell  for  a  thousand  pound  !  " 

"  O  birdie,  birdie  !  won't  you  pet? 
We'll  buy  you  a  dish  of  silver  fret, 
A  golden  cup  and  an  ivory  seat, 
And  carpets  soft  beneath  your  feet !  " 

w  Can  running  water  be  drunk  from  gold  ? 
Can  a  silver  dish  the  forest  hold  ? 
A  rocking  twig  is  the  finest  chair, 
And  the  softest  paths  lie  through  the  air,  — 
Good-by,  good-by,  to  my  lady  fair  !  " 

Wx.  Allixgham 


THE    OPEX   DOOR.  8 1 


THE    OPEN    DOOR. 

AVithtx  a  town  of  Holland  once 

A  widow  dwelt,  'tis  said, 
So  poor,  alas  !  her  children  asked 

One  night,  in  vain,  for  bread. 
But  this  poor  woman  loved  the  Lord, 

And  knew  that  he  was  good  ; 
So,  with  her  little  ones  around, 

She  prayed  to  him  for  food. 

"When  prayer  was  done,  her  eldest  child,  — 

A  bov  of  eici'ht  years'  old,  — 
Said  softly.  "In  the  Holy  Book, 

Dear  mother,  we  are  told 
How  God,  with  food  by  ravens  brought, 

Supplied  his  prophet's  need.*' 
"Yes,"  answered  she  ;  "but  that,  my  son, 

Was  long  ago,  indeed.*' 

"But,  mother,  God  may  do  again 

What  he  has  done  before  ; 
And  so,  to  let  the  birds  fly  in, 

I  will  unclose  the  door." 
Then  little  Dirk,  in  simple  faith, 

Threw  ope  the  door  full  wide, 
So  that  the  radiance  of  their  lamp 

Fell  on  the  path  outside. 
6 


82  THE    OPEN   DOOR. 

Ere  long  the  burgomaster  passed, 

And,  noticing  the  light, 
Paused  to  inquire  why  the  door 

Was  open  so  at  night. 
"My  little  Dirk  has  done  it,  sir," 

The  widow,  smiling,  said, 
M  That  ravens  might  fly  in  to  bring 

My  hungry  children  bread." 

"  Indeed  !  "  the  burgomaster  cried, 

"  Then  here's  a  raven,  lad  ; 
Come  to  my  home,  and  you  shall  see 

Where  bread  may  soon  be  had." 
Along  the  street  to  his  own  house 

He  quickly  led  the  boy, 
And  sent  him  back  with  food  that  filled 

His  humble  home  with  joy. 

The  supper  ended,  little  Dirk 

Went  to  the  open  door, 
Looked  up,  said,  "Many  thanks,  good  Lord;" 

Then  shut  it  fast  once  more. 
For,  though  no  bird  had  entered  in, 

He  knew  that  God  on  high 
Had  hearkened  to  his  mother's  prayer, 

And  sent  this  full  supply. 


THE    CHOICE. 


MOTHER,  range  not  overwide  ; 

Lest  what  thou  seek  be  haply  hid 
In  bramble-blossoms  at  thy  side, 

Or  shut  within  the  daisy-lid. 


God's  glory  lies  not  out  of  reach  : 
The  moss  we  crush  beneath  our  feet, 

The  pebbles  on  the  wet  sea-beach, 

Have  solemn  meanings,  strange  and  sweet. 


The  peasant,  at  his  cottage  door, 

May  teach  thee  more  than  Plato  knew. 

See  that  thou  scorn  him  not :  adore 
God  in  him,  and  thy  nature  too. 


185] 


86  THE    CHOICE. 

Know  well  thy  friends.     The  woodbine's  breath, 

The  woolly  tendril  on  the  vine, 
Are  more  to  thee  than  Cato's  death, 

Or  Cicero's  words  to  Cat  aline. 

Xor  cross  the  sea  for  gems.     Xor  seek  : 
Be  sought.     Fear  not  to  dwell  alone. 

Possess  thyself.     Be  proudly  meek  : 
See  thou  be  worthy  to  be  known. 

"We  go  to  Nature  not  as  lords, 

But  servants  ;  and  she  treats  us  thus  : 

Speaks  to  us  with  indifferent  words, 
And  from  a  distance  looks  at  us. 

We  ransack  History's  tattered  page ; 

We  prate  of  epoch  and  costume  ; 
Call  this  and  that  the  classic  age  : 

Choose  tunic  now,  now  helm  and  plume : 

But  while  we  halt,  in  weak  debate, 

'Twixt  that  and  this  appropriate  theme, 

The  offended  wild-flowers  stare  and  wait, 
The  bird  hoots  at  us  from  the  stream. 

Owen  Meredith. 


SEVEN    TIMES    ONE.  87 


SEVEN   TIMES   ONE. 

There's  no  dew  left  on  the  daisies  and  clover ; 

There's  no  rain  left  in  heaven  ; 
I've  said  my  "  Seven  Times  "  over  and  over,  — 

Seven  times  one  are  seven. 

I  am  old,  —  so  old,  I  can  write  a  letter ; 

My  birthday  lessons  are  done  ; 
The  lambs  play  always,  they  know  no  better; 

They  are  only  one  times  one. 

0  moon  !  in  the  night  I  have  seen  you  sailing, 
And  shining  so  round  and  low  ; 

You  were  bright  !    ah,  bright  !   but  vour  li^ht  is  fail- 
ing,  — 
You  are  nothing  now  but  a  bow. 

You  moon,  have  you  done  something  wrong  in  heaven 
That  God  has  hidden  your  face? 

1  hope,  if  you  have,  you  will  be  forgiven, 

And  shine  again  in  your  place. 

O  velvet  bee  !  you're  a  dusty  fellow, 

You've  powdered  your  legs  with  gold ; 
O  brave  marshmary  buds,  rich  and  yellow  ! 

Give  me  your  money  to  hold. 


88  LUCY. 

O  columbine  !  open  your  folded  wrapper, 
Where  two  twin  turtle-doves  dwell ; 

0  cuckoo-pint !  toll  ine  the  purple  clapper 
That  hangs  in  your  clear  green  bell. 

And  show  me  your  nest  with  the  young  ones  in  it ; 
I  will  not  steal  them  away  : 

1  am  old  !  — you  may  trust  me,  linnet,  linnet,  — 

I  am  seven  times  one  to-day. 

Jeax  Ixgelow. 


LUCY. 

Three  years  she  grew,  in  sun  and  shower ; 
Then  Nature  said,  "A  lovelier  flower 

On  earth  was  never  seen  ; 
This  child  I  to  myself  will  take  : 
She  shall  be  mine  ;  and  I  will  make 

A  lady  of  my  own. 

Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 

Both  law  and  impulse  ;  and  with  me 

The  girl,  on  rock  and  plain, 
In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower, 
Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power 

To  kindle  and  restrain. 


LUCY.  89 

She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn, 
That,  wild  with  glee,  across  the  lawn, 

Or  up  the  mountain,  springs  ; 
And  hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 
And  hers  the  silence  and  the  calm 

Of  mute,  insensate  things. 

The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall  lend 
To  her  ;  for  her  the  willow  bend  : 

Xor  shall  she  fail  to  see, 
Even  in  the  motions  of  the  storm, 
Grace  that  shall  mould  the  maiden's  form 

By  silent  sympathy. 

The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 
To  her  ;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  place, 
Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round ; 
And  beauty,  born  of  murmuring  sound, 

Shall  pass  into  her  face. 

And  vital  feelings  of  delight 

Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height, 

Her  virgin  bosom  swell ; 
Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give, 
While  she  and  I  together  live, 

Here  in  this  happy  dell." 

Wordsworth 


90  THE   FARMER'S    BOY. 


THE   FARMER'S   BOY. 

I  should  like  to  guide  the  plough, 
Cut  a  furrow  clean  and  straight ; 

Run  afield,  and  fetch  the  cow ; 
Eat  my  luncheon  on  a  gate ; 

Drive  the  team  adown  the  lane, 
Happy  as  I  trudge  along ; 

Shout  the  rooks  from  off  the  grain ; 
Whistle  back  the  blackbird's  song 

Would  I  mind  the  frost  or  snow  ? 

Not  a  bit,  if  warmly  clad ; 
Would  I  loiter  as  I  go, 

Like  an  idle,  louty  lad? 

No  ;  I'd  rise  with  early  morn, 
Busy  on  throughout  the  day  : 

Idle  hands  but  pluck  a  thorn ; 
Honest  work 's  as  good  as  play. 

When  I  lay  me  down  at  night, 
Oh,  how  soundly  I  shall  sleep  ! 

Whether  it  is  dark  or  light, 

Safely  me  my  God  will  keep,  — 


WISHING.  91 

Keep  me,  if  I  seek  his  love,  — 

Rest  upon  his  promised  aid  : 
While  I  trust  in  One  above, 
If  I  rest,  or  if  I  rove, 

What  shall  make  my  heart  afraid  ? 


WISHING. 

Rentg-tixg  !     I  wish  I  were  a  primrose, 
A  bright,  yellow  primrose,  blowing  in  the  Spring  I 
The  stooping  boughs  above  me, 
The  wandering  bee  to  love  me, 
The  fern  and  moss  to  creep  across, 

And  the  elm-tree  for  our  king ! 

Nay,  —  stay  !     I  wish  I  were  an  elm-tree  ! 
A  great,  lofty  elm-tree,  with  green  leaves  gay  ! 
The  winds  would  set  them  dancing, 
The  sun  and  moonshine  glance  in, 
The  birds  would  house  among  the  boughs, 
And  sweetly  sing ! 

Oh,  —  no  !     I  wish  I  were  a  robin  ! 
A  robin,  or  a  little  wren,  everywhere  to  go, 
Through  forest,  field,  or  garden, 
And  ask  no  leave  or  pardon, 
Till  Winter  comes  with  icy  thumbs 
To  ruffle  up  our  wing ! 


92  THE  o'lixcox  family. 

Well,  —  tell !     Whew  should  I  fly  to  ? 
AY  here  go  to  sleep  in  the  dark  wood  or  dell? 
Before  a  day  is  over, 
Home  comes  the  rover 
For  mother's  kiss,  —  sweeter  this 
Than  any  other  thing. 

Wm.  Allixgiiam. 


THE   O'LIXCON   FAMILY. 

A  FLOCK  of  merry  singing  birds  were  sporting  in  the 
grove ; 

Some  were  warbling  cheerily,  and  some  were  making 
love : 

These  were  Bobolincon,  AAradolincon,  AArinterseeble, 
Conquedle  ; 

A  livelier  set  were  never  led  by  taber,  pipe,  or  fiddle ; 

Crying,  "Pew,  shew,  AVadolincon !  see,  see,  Bobo- 
lincon, 

Down  among  the  tickle  tops,  hiding  in  the  buttercups  ! 

I  know  the  saucy  chap  ;  I  see  his  shining  cap 

Bobbing  in  the  clover  there  :  see,  see,  see  !  " 

Up  flies  Bobolincon,  perching  on  an  apple-tree, 
Startled  by  his  rival's  song,  quickened  by  his  raillery. 
Soon  he  spies  the  rogue  afloat,  curveting  in  the  air, 
And  merrily  he  turns  about,  and  warns  him  to  beware  ! 


THE  o'lenxox  family.  93 

"'Tis  you  that  would  a  wooing  go,  down  among  the 
rashes,  O ! 

But  wait  a  week,  till  flowers  are  cheery ;  wait  a  week, 

and,  ere  you  marry, 
Be  sure  of  a  house  wherein  to  tarry  ! 
TTadolink,     Wliiskodink,    Tom    Denny,    wait,    wait, 

wait  !  " 

Every  one's  a  funny  fellow  ;  every  one's  a  little  mellow  ; 
Follow,  follow,  follow,  o'er  the  hill  and  in  the  hollow  ! 
Merrily,  merrily,  there  they  hie ;   now  they  rise,   and 

now  they  fly ; 
They  cross  and  turn,  and  in  and  out,  and  down  in  the 

middle,  and  wheel  about, 
With  a  "Phew,  shew,  "Wadolincon  !  listen  to  me,  Bob- 

olincon  ! 
Happy's  the  wooing  that's  speedily  doing,  that's  speedily 

doing  ; 
That's  merry  and  over,  with  the  bloom  of  the  clover  ! 
Bobolincon,  TTadolincon,  Winterseeble,  follow,  follow 


Oh,  what  a  happy  life  they  lead,  over  the  hill  and  in 

the  mead  ! 
How   they   sing,   and  how  they  play  !     See,  they  fly 

away,  away  ! 
Xow  thev  rrambol   o'er  the   clearing ;    off  a^ain,   and 

then  appearing ; 
Poised   aloft  on  quivering  wing,   now  they  soar,   and 

now  thev  sin<x  :  — 


f'4  READY   FOR    DUTY. 

"Oh,   let   us   be   merry  and   moving!     Oh,  let  us  be 

happy  and  loving  ! 
For  when  the  midsummer  has  come,  and  the  grain  has 

ripened  its  ear, 
The  haymakers  scatter  our  young,  and  we  mourn  for 

the  rest  of  the  year  ! 

Then   Bobolincon,   Wadolincon,   Winterseeble,    haste, 

haste,  away ! " 

Wilsox  Flagg. 


READY   FOR   DUTY. 

Daffy-down-dilly  came  up  in  the  cold, 

Through  the  brown  mould, 
Although  the  March  breezes  blew  keen  on  her  face, 
Although  the  white  snow  lay  on  many  a  place. 


Daffy-down-dilly  had  heard  under  ground 

The  sweet  rushing  sound 
Of  the  streams,   as   they  burst  off  their  white  winter 

chains,  — 
Of  the  whistling  spring  winds,  and  the  pattering  rains. 

"Now,  then,"  thought  Daffy,  deep  down  in  her  heart, 

"  It's  time  I  should  start !  " 
So  she  pushed  her  soft  leaves  through  the  hard-frozen 

ground, 
Quite  up  to  the  surface,  and  then  she  looked  round. 


READY  FOR  DUTY.  (J5 

There  was  snow  all  about  her,  gray  clouds  overhead ; 

The  trees  all  looked  dead. 
Then  how  do  you  think  Daffy-down-dilly  felt, 
When  the  sun  would  not  shine,  and  the  ice  would  not 
melt  ? 

"  Cold  weather  !  "  thought  Daffy,  still  working  away  ; 

"  The  earth's  hard  to-day  ! 
There's  but  a  half-inch  of  my  leaves  to  be  seen, 
And  two-thirds  of  that  is  more  yellow  than  green  ! 

I  can't  do  much  yet ;  but  I'll  do  what  I  can. 

It's  well  I  began  ! 
For,  unless  I  can  manage  to  lift  up  my  head. 
The  people  will  think  that  the  Spring  herself 's  dead  !  " 

So,  little  by  little,  she  brought  her  leaves  out, 

All  clustered  about : 
And  then  her  bright  flowers  began  to  unfold, 
Till  Daffy  stood  robed  in  her  spring  green  and  gold. 

O  Daffy-down-dilly,  so  brave  and  so  true  ! 

I  wish  all  were  like  you  ! 
So  ready  for  duty  in  all  sorts  of  weather, 
And  holding  forth  courage  and  beauty  together. 

Miss  Wammkm. 


96  THE    WINTER   KING. 


THE   WINTER   KING. 

Oh  !  what  will  become  of  thee,  poor  little  bird? 
The  muttering  storm  in  the  distance  is  heard  ; 
The  rough  winds  are  waking,  the  clouds  "-rowing  black. 
They'll  soon  scatter  snow-flakes  all  over  thy  back  ! 
From  what  sunny  clime  hast  thou  wandered  away  ? 
And  what  art  thou  doing,  this  cold  winter's  day? 
"  I'm  picking  the  gum  from  the  old  peach-tree. 
The  storm  does  not  trouble  me.     Pee,  dee,  dee  !" 

But  what  makes  thee  seem  so  unconscious  of  care  ? 
The  brown  earth  is  frozen,  the  branches  are  bare ; 
And  how  canst  thou  be  so  light-hearted  and  free, 
Like  liberty's  form,  with  the  spirit  of  glee, 
"When  no  place  is  near  for  thy  evening  nest, 
No  leaf  for  thy  screen,  for  thy  bosom  no  rest? 
"  Because  the  same  Hand  is  a  shelter  for  me, 
That  took  off  the  summer  leaves.    Pee,  dee,  dee  !" 

But  man  feels  a  burden  of  care  and  of  grief, 
While  plucking  the  cluster,  and  binding  the  sheaf. 
In  the  summer  we  faint,  in  the  winter  we're  chilled  ; 
With  ever  a  void  that  is  yet  to  be  filled. 
VTc  take  from  the  ocean,  the  earth,  and  the  air; 
Yet  all  their  rich  gifts  do  not  silence  our  care. 
n  A  very  small  portion  sufficient  will  be, 
If  sweetened  with  gratitude.     Pee,  dee,  dee  !  " 


WHAT   THE    BIRDS    SAY.  97 

I  thank  thee,  bright  monitor  :  what  thou  hast  taught 
AVill  oft  be  the  theme  of  the  happiest  thought. 
We  look  at  the  clouds,  —  while  the  birds  have  an  eye 
To  Him  who  reigns  over  them,  changeless  and  high. 
So  now,  little  hero,  just  tell  me  thy  name, 
That  I  may  be  sure  whence  my  oracle  came. 
"Because  in  all  weather  I'm  happy  and  free, 
They  call  me  the  Winter  King.     Pee,  dee,  dee  !" 

But  soon  there'll  be  ice  weisrhinij  down  the  lio-ht  boup:h 
On  which  thou  art  flitting  so  play  fully  down  ; 
And  though  there's  a  vesture,  well  fitted  and  warm, 
Protecting  the  rest  of  thy  delicate  form, 
What  then  wilt  thou  do  with  thy  little  bare  feet, 
To  save  them  from  pain,  'mid  the  frost  and  the  sleet? 
"I  can  draw  them  right  up  in  my  feathers,  you  see, 
To  warm  them,  and  fly  away.     Pee,  dee,  dee  !" 

Miss  H.  F.  Gould. 


WHAT   THE   BIRDS   SAY. 

Said  the  Chaffinch,  K  Sweet,  sweet,  sweet ! 
O  bring  my  pretty  love  to  meet  me  here  ! " 
"Chaffinch,"  said  I,  "be  dumb  awhile,  in  fear 

Thy  darling  prove  no  better  than  a  cheat, 
And  never  come,  or  fly  when  wintry  days  appear.' 
Yet  from  a  twig, 
With  voice  so  big, 
The  little  fowl  his  utterance  did  repeat. 
7 


98  Mil  AT    THE    BIRDS    SAY. 

Said  I :  "  The  man  forlorn 
Hears  earth  *vud  up  a  foolish  noise  aloft." 
f'  And  whafU  he  do?  that'll  he  do?"  scoffed 

The  Blackbird,  standing  in  an  ancient  thorn  ; 
Then  spread  his  sooty  wings,  and  flitted  to  the  croft, 
With  cackling  laugh : 
Whom  I,  being  half 
Enraged,  called  after,  giving  back  his  scorn. 

Worse  mocked  the  Thrush  :  "Die,  die  ! 
Oh  !  could  he  do  it  ?  could  he  do  it  ?     Nay  ! 
Be  quick  !   be  quick  !     Here,  here,  here  !  "    (went  his 
lay;) 
"Take  heed!    take  heed ! "     Then:    "Why?    why? 
why?  why?  why? 
See — ee  now  !  see — ee  now  !  "  (he  drawled  ;) 
"  Back  !  back  !  back  !     R-r-r-run  away  !  " 
O  Thrush,  be  still ! 
Or,  at  thy  will, 
Seek  some  less  sad  interpreter  than  I ! 

"  Air,  air  !  blue  air  and  white  ! 
Whither  I  flee,  whither,  oh  whither,  oh  whither  I  flee  ! " 
(Thus  the  Lark  hurried,  mounting  from  the  lea.) 
Hills,  countries,  many  waters  glittering  bright, 
"  Whither  I  see  !  whither  I  see  !     Deeper,  deeper,  deep- 
er, whither  I  see,  see,  see  !  " 
"Gay  Lark,"  I  said, 
"The  song  that's  bred 
In  happy  nest  may  well  to  heaven  make  flight ! " 


THE   WOOD-MOUSE.  99 

"There's  something,  something  sad, 
I  half  remember,"  piped  a  broken  strain. 
Well  sung,  sweet  Robin  !     Robin  sang  again, 

"  Spring's  opening  cheerily ,  cheerily  !     Be  we  glad  !  " 
Which  moved,  I  wist  not  why,  me  melancholy  mad  ; 
Till  now,  grown  meek, 
With  wetted  cheek, 
Most  comforting  and  gentle  thoughts  I  had. 

William  Allixgham. 


THE   WOOD-MOUSE. 

Do  you  know  the  little  wood-mouse, 

That  pretty  little  thing, 
That  sits  among  the  forest  leaves, 

Beside  the  forest  spring? 

Its  fur  is  as  red  as  the  red  chestnut, 
And  it  is  small  and  slim  ; 

It  leads  a  life  most  innocent 
Within  the  forest  dim. 

'Tis  a  timid,  gentle  creature, 
And  seldom  comes  in  sight ; 

It  has  a  long  and  wiry  tail, 

And  eyes  both  black  and  bright. 


100  THE    AVOOD-MOUSE. 

It  makes  its  nest  of  soft,  dry  moss, 

In  a  hole  so  deep  and  strong ; 
And  there  it  sleeps  secure  and  warm, 

The  dreary  winter  long. 

And  though  it  keeps  no  almanac, 

It  knows  when  flowers  are  springing  ; 

And  waketh  to  its  summer  life 
When  nightingales  are  singing. 

Upon  the  boughs  the  squirrel  sits, 
The  wood-mouse  plays  below  ; 

And  plenty  of  food  it  finds  itself 

Where  the  beech  and  chestnut  grow. 

In  the  hedge-sparrow's  nest  he  sits 
When  its  summer  brood  is  fled, 

And  picks  the  berries  from  the  bough 
Of  the  hawthorn  overhead. 

I  saw  a  little  wood-mouse  once, 

Like  Oberon  in  his  hall, 
With  the  green,  green  moss  beneath  his  feet, 

Sit  under  a  mushroom  tall. 

I  saw  him  sit,  and  his  dinner  eat, 

All  under  the  forest-tree  ; 
His  dinner  of  chestnut,  ripe  and  red  ; 

And  he  ate  it  heartily. 


THE    COUNTRY   CHILD.  101 

I  wish  you  could  have  seen  him  there  : 

It  did  my  spirit  good 
To  see  the  small  thing  God  had  made, 

Thus  eating  in  the  wood. 

I  saw  that  He  regardeth  them,  — 

Those  creatures  weak  and  small ; 

Their  table  in  the  wild  is  spread 

By  Him  who  cares  for  all. 

Mrs.  Mary  Howitt. 


THE    COUNTRY   CHILD. 

TTith  mingled  trembling  and  delight, 

And  slowly  falling  feet, 
A  little  country  maiden  now 

Is  passing  down  the  street  : 
A  country  child,  —  I  know  it  by 
Her  timid  air,  her  wondering  eye. 

The  warm  sunlight  has  kissed  her  brow, 
And  tinged  her  cheek  with  brown ; 

The  odor  of  the  violets 

Comes  with  her  to  the  town  : 

"We  almost  guess  the  woodland  place 

Where  she  has  dwelt,  from  her  sweet  face  ! 


102  THE    COUNTRY   CHILD. 

We  almost  read  her  inner  thoughts 

Through  her  large,  wistful  eyes; 
How  bright  to  her  the  city  seems, 

How  much  like  Paradise, 

As  Nature's  child,  with  bounding  heart, 
Looks,  for  the  first  glad  time,  on  Art  ! 

The  merchant,  in  his  storehouse  door, 

Smiles  as  she  passes  by  ; 
The  laborer  pauses  in  his  work, 

To  watch  her,  with  a  sigh  : 
AVhere'er  she  goes,  she  wakens  dreams 
Of  shady  nooks  and  rippling  streams. 

She  seems  to  bring  the  country  here,  — 

Its  birds,  its  flowers,  its  dew  ; 
And  slowly,  as,  amid  the  throng, 

She  passes  from  our  view, 
AVe  watch  her  sadly,  as  we  might 
Some  pleasant  landscape  fade  from  sight. 

Ah,  well !  we  would  not  keep  her  here, 

These  dusty  streets  to  roam,  — 
So  fair  a  flower  should  open  with 

The  daisy  buds  at  home  ; 
'Mid  primrose  stars,  as  Bweet  and  wild, 
As  she  will  be,  —  dear,  woodland  child  ! 

Mariax  Douglas. 


THE    GRAY   SQUIRRELS.  103 


THE   GRAY   SQUIRRELS. 

There  were  hundreds  that  in  the  hollow  boles 

Of  the  old,  old  trees  did  dwell, 
And  laid  up  their  store  hard  by  their  door, 

Of  the  beech-nuts,  as  they  fell. 

But  soon  the  hungry  wild  swine  came, 
And  with  thievish  snouts  dug  up 

Their  buried  treasure,  and  left  them  not 
So  much  as  an  acorn-cup. 

Then  did  they  chatter  in  angry  mood, 

And  one  and  all  decree, 
Into  the  forests  of  rich  stone-pine, 

Over  hill  and  dale  to  flee. 

Over  hill  and  dale,  over  hill  and  dale, 

For  many  a  league  they  went ; 
Like  a  troop  of  undaunted  travellers, 

Governed  by  one  consent. 

But  the  hawk  and  eagle  and  peering  owl 

Did  dreadfully  pursue ; 
And  the  farther  the  gray  squirrels  went, 

The  more  their  perils  grew. 
When,  lo  !  to  cut  off  their  pilgrimage, 

A  broad  stream  lay  in  view. 


104  THE    GRAY   SQUIRRELS. 

But  then  did  each  wondrous  creature  shew 

His  cunning  and  bravery  ; 
With  a  piece  of  the  pine  bark  in  his  mouth, 

Unto  the  stream  came  he, 

And  boldly  his  little  bark  he  launched, 

Without  the  least  delay  ; 
His  bushy  tail  was  his  upright  sail, 

And  he  merrily  steered  away. 

Never  was  there  a  lovelier  sight 

Than  that  gray  squirrel's  fleet ; 
And  with  anxious  eyes  I  watched  to  see 

What  fortune  it  would  meet. 

Soon  had  they  reached  the  rough  mid-stream, 

And  ever  and  anon 
I  grieved  to  behold  some  small  bark  wrecked, 

And  its  little  steersman  gone. 

But  the  main  fleet  stoutly  held  across ; 

I  sawr  them  leap  to  shore  : 
They  entered  the  woods  with  a  cry  of  joy, 

For  their  perilous  march  was  o'er. 

Mrs.  Mary  Howitt. 


THE    GRASSHOPPER.  105 


THE   GRASSHOPPER. 

Happy  insect !  what  can  be 

In  happiness  compared  to  thee  ? 

Fed  with  nourishment  divine,  — 

The  dewy  morning's  gentle  wine ! 

Nature  waits  upon  thee  still, 

And  thy  verdant  cup  does  fill : 

'Tis  fill'd  wherever  thou  dost  tread,  — 

Nature's  self's  thy  Ganymede  ! 

Thou  dost  drink  and  dance  and  sing, 

Happier  than  the  happiest  king  ! 

All  the  fields  which  thou  dost  see, 

All  the  plants,  belong  to  thee ; 

All  that  summer  hours  produce, 

Fertile  made  with  early  juice. 

Man  for  thee  does  sow  and  plough  ; 

Farmer  he,  and  landlord  thou  ! 

Thou  dost  innocently  joy, 

Nor  does  thy  luxury  destroy. 

The  shepherd  gladly  heareth  thee, 

More  harmonious  than  he. 

Thee  country  minds  with  gladness  hear, 

Prophet  of  the  ripened  year. 

Thee  Phoebus  loves,  and  does  inspire ; 

Phoebus  is  himself  thy  sire. 

To  thee,  of  all  things  upon  earth, 

Life  is  no  longer  than  thy  mirth. 


106  TO   A   BUTTERFLY. 

Happy  insect !  happy  thou, 

Dost  neither  age  nor  winter  know  ! 

But  when  thou'st  drunk  and  danced  and  sung 

Thy  fill,  the  flowery  leaves  among, 

(Voluptuous  and  wise  withal, 

Epicurean  animal !) 

Sated  with  the  summer  feast, 

Thou  retirest  to  endless  rest. 

A.  Cowley. 


TO  A  BUTTERFLY. 

I've  watch'd  you  now  a  full  half-hour, 
Self-poised  upon  that  yellow  flower  ; 
And,  little  butterfly,  indeed, 
I  know  not  if  you  sleep  or  feed  ! 
How  motionless  !     Not  frozen  seas 

More  motionless  !     And  then 
"What  joy  awaits  you,  when  the  breeze 
Has  found  you  out  among  the  trees, 

And  calls  you  forth  again  ! 

This  plot  of  orchard  ground  is  ours ; 
My  trees  they  are,  my  sister's  flowers » 
Here  rest  your  wings  when  they  are  weary ; 
Here  lodge  as  in  a  sanctuary  ! 
Come  often  to  us  ;  fear  no  wrong ; 
Sit  near  us  on  the  bough. 


SIGNS    OF   EAIX.  107 

We'll  talk  of  sunshine  and  of  song, 
And  summer  days  when  we  were  young ; 
Sweet,  childish  days,  that  were  as  long 
As  twenty  days  are  now. 

"WOBDSWORTH. 


SIGXS   OF   RAIN. 

The  hollow  winds  begin  to  blow, 
The  clouds  look  black,  the  glass  is  low, 
The  soot  falls  down,  the  spaniels  sleep, 
The  spiders  from  their  cobwebs  peep. 
Last  night  the  sun  went  pale  to  bed, 
The  moon  in  halos  hid  her  head ; 
The  boding  shepherd  heaves  a  sigh, 
For,  see,  a  rainbow  spans  the  sky  ! 
The  walls  are  damp,  the  ditches  smell, 
Closed  is  the  pink-eyed  pimpernel. 
Hark  how  the  chairs  and  tables  crack  ! 
Old  Betty's  joints  are  on  the  rack ; 
Loud  quack  the  ducks,  the  peacocks  cry ; 
The  distant  hills  are  seeming  niirh. 
How  restless  are  the  snorting  swine  ! 
The  busy  flies  disturb  the  kine ; 
Low  o'er  the  grass  the  swallow  wings  ; 
The  cricket,  too,  how  sharp  he  sings  ! 
Puss  on  the  earth,  with  velvet  paws, 
Sits  wiping  o'er  her  whiskered  jaws. 


108 


Through  the  clear  stream  the  fishes  rise, 
And  nimbly  catch  the  incautious  flies. 
The  glow-worms,  numerous  and  bright, 
Illumed  the  dreary  dell  last  night. 
At  dusk  the  squalid  toad  was  seen 
Hopping  and  crawling  o'er  the  green ; 
The  whirling  wind  the  dust  obeys, 
And  in  the  rapid  eddy  plays  ; 
The  frog  has  changed  his  yellow  vest, 
And  in  a  russet  coat  is  dressed. 
Though  June,  the  air  is  cold  and  still, 
The  mellow  blackbird's  voice  is  shrill. 
My  dog,  so  altered  in  his  taste, 
Quits  mutton-bones  on  grass  to  feast ; 
And  see  yon  rooks,  how  odd  their  flight ! 
They  imitate  the  gliding  kite, 
And  seem  precipitate  to  fall, 
As  if  they  felt  the  piercing  ball. 
'Twill  surely  rain,  I  see  with  sorrow : 
Our  jaunt  must  be  put  off  to-morrow. 

E.  Jenner. 

THE   LARK'S   SONG. 

"  Good-night,  Sir  Rook,"  said  a  little  lark  ; 

"  The  daylight  fades,  it  will  soon  be  dark  : 

I've  bathed  my  wings  in  the  sun's  last  ray, 

I've  sung  my  hymn  to  the  dying  day  ; 

So  now  I  haste  to  my  quiet  nook 

In  yon  dewy  meadow.     Good-night,  Sir  Rook." 


THE   LAEK'S    SOXG.  109 

t 

"  Good-night,  poor  Lark,"  said  his  titled  friend, 

TTith  a  haughty  toss  and  a  distant  bend ; 

"I  also  go  to  rest  profound, 

But  not  to  sleep  on  the  cold,  damp  ground. 

The  fittest  place  for  a  bird  like  me 

Is  the  topmost  bough  of  yon  tall  pine-tree. 

I  opened  my  eyes  at  peep  of  day, 
And  saw  you  taking  your  upward  way, 
Dreaming  your  fond,  romantic  dreams,  — 
An  ugly  speck  in  the  sun's  bright  beams ; 
Soaring  too  high  to  be  seen  or  heard,  — 
And  said  to  myself,  f  What  a  foolish  bird  ! ' 

I  trod  the  park  with  a  princely  air ; 

I  filled  my  crop  with  the  richest  fare'; 

I  cawed  all  day  'mid  a  lordly  crew, 

And  I  made  more  noise  in  the  world  than  you ! 

The  sun  shone  full  on  my  ebon  wing  ; 

I  looked  and  wondered.      Good-night,  poor  thing  !  " 

w  Good-night,  once  more,"  said  the  Lark's  sweet  voice  : 

"  I  see  no  cause  to  repent  my  choice. 

You  build  your  nest  in  the  lofty  pine, 

But  is  your  slumber  more  soft  than  mine  ? 

You  make  more  noise  in  the  world  than  I, 

But  whose  is  the  sweeter  minstrelsy  ?  " 


110  ROBIN   RED-BREAST. 


ROBIN   RED-BREAST. 

Good-by,  good-by  to  summer ! 

For  summer's  nearly  done  ; 
The  garden  smiling  faintly, 

Cool  breezes  in  the  sun. 
Our  thrushes  now  are  silent, 

Our  swallows  flown  away ; 
But  Robin's  here,  in  coat  of  brown, 

And  scarlet  breastknot  gay. 
Robin,  Robin  Red-breast, 

O  Robin  dear  ! 
Robin  sings  so  sweetly 

In  the  falling  of  the  year. 

Bright  yellow,  red,  and  orange, 

The  leaves  come  down  in  hosts ; 
The  trees  are  Indian  princes, 

But  soon  they'll  turn  to  ghosts. 
The  leathery  pears  and  apples 

Hang  russet  on  the  bough  ; 
It's  autumn,  autumn,  autumn,  late,  - 

'Twill  soon  be  winter  now. 
Robin,  Robin  Red-breast, 

O  Robin  dear  ! 
And  what  will  this  poor  Robin  do  ? 

For  pinching  days  are  near. 


THE    KOBE*   RED-BREAST.  Ill 

The  fireside  for  the  cricket, 

The  wheatstack  for  the  mouse, 
When  trembling  night-winds  whistle 

And  moan  all  round  the  house  : 
The  frosty  ways  like  iron, 

The  branches  plumed  with  snow,  — 
Alas  !  in  winter,  dead  and  dark, 

Where  can  poor  Robin  go  ? 
Robin,  Robin  Red-breast, 

O  Robin  dear  ! 
And  a  crumb  of  bread  for  Robin, 

His  little  heart  to  cheer. 

William  Allixgham. 


THE   ROBIN   RED-BREAST. 

Art  thou  the  bird  whom  man  loves  best, 
The  pious  bird  with  the  scarlet  breast, 

Our  little  English  robin  ; 
The  bird  that  comes  about  our  doors 

When  autumn  winds  are  sobbing? 
Art  thou  the  Peter  of  Norway  boors  ? 

Their  Thomas  in  Finland, 

And  Russia,  far  inland? 
The  bird  who  by  some  name  or  other 
All  men  who  know  thee  call  thee  brother  ? 

Wordsworth. 


112  "it  is  more  blessed. 


"IT  IS   MORE   BLESSED." 

Give  !  as  the  morning  that  flows  out  of  heaven  ; 
Give  !  as  the  waves  when  their  channel  is  riven  ; 
Give  !  as  the  free  air  and  sunshine  are  given  ; 

Lavishly,  utterly,  joyfully  give  ! 
Not  the  waste  drops  of  thy  cup  overflowing ; 
Not  the  faint  sparks  of  thy  hearth  ever  glowing ; 
Not  a  pale  bud  from  the  June  roses  blowing : 

Give  as  He  gave  thee  who  gave  thee  to  live. 

Pour  out  thy  love  like  the  rush  of  a  river, 

Wasting  its  waters,  for  ever  and  ever, 

Through  the  burnt  sands  that  reward  not  the  giver 

Silent  or  songful,  thou  nearest  the  sea. 
Scatter  thy  life  as  the  summer's  shower  pouring ; 
What  if  no  bird  through  the  pearl  rain  is  soaring? 
What  if  no  blossom  looks  upward  adoring? 

Look  to  the  life  that  was  lavished  for  thee  ! 

So  the  wild  wind  strews  its  perfumed  caresses ; 
Evil  and  thankless  the  desert  it  blesses ; 
Bitter  the  wave  that  its  soft  pinion  presses  : 

Never  it  ceaseth  to  whisper  and  sing. 
What  if  the  hard  heart  give  thorns  for  thy  roses  ? 
What  if  on  rocks  thy  tired  bosom  reposes  ? 
Sweeter  is  music  with  minor-keyed  closes, 

Fairest  the  vines  that  on  ruin  will  cling. 


TVLVTER   FLOWERS.  113 

Almost  the  dav  of  thv  giving  is  over : 

Ere  from  the  grass  dies  the  bee-haunted  clover, 

Thou  wilt  have  vanished  from  friend  and  from  lover  : 

What  shall  thy  longing  avail  in  the  grave  ? 
Give  as  the  heart  gives  whose  fetters  are  breaking,  — 
Life,  love,  and  hope,  all  thy  dreams  and  thy  waking ; 
Soon  heaven's  river  thy  soul-fever  slaking, 

Thou  shalt  know  God,  and  the  gift  that  he  gave. 


WINTER    FLOWERS. 

Softly  down  from  the  cold,  gray  sky,  , 
On  the  withering  air,  they  flit  and  fly  ; 
Resting  anywhere,  there  they  lie,  — 

The  feathery  flowers. 
Born  on  the  breath  of  the  wintry  day, 
Leaves  and  flowers  and  gems  are  they  ; 
Fresh  and  fair  as  the  gay  array 

Of  the  sunlit  hours. 

Forests  orrand  on  the  windows  stow. 
Majestic  boughs  their  branches  throw, 
And  delicate  traceried  leaves  all  glow 

With  many  a  flower. 
Mosses  and  fringed  ferns  are  traced, 
With  glistening  gems  among  them  placed, 
And  lofty  branches  interlaced, 

All  in  an  hour. 
8 


114  CORN-FIELDS. 

One  by  one,  to  the  frozen  clod, 
Beautiful  forms,  from  the  hand  of  God, 
Falling  now  on  the  grave-marked  sod, 

Withered  and  cold  : 
Now  on  the  old  man's  whitened  hair, 
Caught  in  the  child's  hand,  soft  and  fair; 
Now  piled  like  Alpine  mountains  bare, 

Lofty  and  bold. 

Some  brightening  shadows  each  dark  hour  brings, 
And  e'en  to  the  wintry  hour  there  clings 
Some  type  of  brighter  and  lovelier  things, 

Fairer  to  be. 
Of  beauty,  brighter  than  earth,  awaits 
A  holy  city,  with  pearly  gates, 
Whose  light  His  glory  all  creates. 

Whose  temple,  He  ! 


CORN-FIELDS. 

WHEN  on  the  breath  of  Autumn's  breeze, 
From  pastures  dry  and  brown, 

Goes  floating,  like  an  idle  thought, 
The  fair,  white  thistle-down, — 

Oh  then  what  joy  to  walk  at  will 

Upon  the  golden  harvest-hill ! 


CORN-FIELDS.  115 

TThat  joy  in  dreamy  ease  to  lie 

Amid  a  field  new  shorn  ; 
And  see  all  round,  on  sunlit  slopes, 

The  piled-up  shocks  of  corn ; 
And  send  the  fancy  wandering  o'er 
All  pleasant  harvest-fields  of  yore  ! 

I  feel  the  day  ;  I  see  the  field  ; 

The  quivering  of  the  leaves  ; 
And  good  old  Jacob,  and  his  horse, 

Binding  the  yellow  sheaves  ! 
And  at  this  very  hour  I  seem 
To  be  with  Joseph  in  his  dream  ! 

I  see  the  fields  of  Bethlehem, 

And  reapers  many  a  one 
Bending  unto  their  sickles'  stroke, 

And  Boaz  looking  on  ; 
And  Ruth,  the  Moabitess  fan, 
Among  the  gleaners  stooping  there  ! 

Again,  I  see  a  little  child, 

His  mother's  sole  delight,  — 
God's  living  grift  of  love  unto 

The  kind,  good  Shunamite  : 
To  mortal  pangs  I  see  him  yield, 
And  the  lad  bear  him  from  the  field. 


11 G  CORN-FIELDS. 

The  sun-bathed  quiet  of  the  hills, 

The  fields  of  Galilee, 
That  eighteen  hundred  years  ago 

Were  full  of  corn,  I  see ; 
And  the  dear  Saviour  take  his  way 
'Mid  ripe  ears  on  the  sabbath-day. 

Oh  golden  fields  of  bending  corn, 

How  beautiful  they  seem  ! 
The  reaper-folk,  the  piled-up  sheaves, 

To  me  are  like  a  dream  ; 
The  sunshine  and  the  very  air 
Seem  of  old  time,  and  take  me  there ! 

Mary  Howitt. 


THE    FAIRIES. 


P  the  airy  mountain, 
Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  daren't  go  a-hunting, 
For  fear  of  little  men  : 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together ; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 
And  white  owl's  feather  ! 


Down  along  the  rocky  shore 
Some  make  their  home ; 

They  live  on  crispy  pancakes 
Of  yellow  tide-foam : 

Some  in  the  reeds 

Of  the  black  mountain-lake, 


119] 


120  THE   FAIRIES. 

With  frogs  for  their  watch-dogs, 
All  night  awake. 

High  on  the  hill-top 

The  old  king  sits  ; 
He  is  now  so  old  and  gray, 

He's  nigh  lost  his  wits. 
With  a  bridge  of  white  mist 

Columbkill  he  crosses, 
On  his  stately  journeys 

From  Slieveleague  to  Rosses  ; 
Or  going  up  with  music, 

On  cold,  starry  nights, 
To  sup  with  the  queen 

Of  the  gay  Northern  Lights. 

By  the  craggy  hill-side, 

Through  the  mosses  bare, 
They  have  planted  thorn-trees, 

For  pleasure,  here  and  there. 
Is  any  man  so  daring 

To  dig  one  up  in  spite? 
He  shall  find  the  thornies  set 

In  his  bed  at  night. 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 
Down  the  rushy  glen, 

We  daren't  go  a-hunting, 
For  fear  of  little  men  : 


THE    FAIRY   QUEEN.  121 

Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together ; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl's  feather  ! 

William  Allixgham. 


THE    FAIRY   QUEEN. 

Come  follow,  follow  me, 
You  fairy  elves  that  be  ! 
Which  circle  on  the  green, 
Come  follow  Mab,  your  queen  ! 
Hand  in  hand  let's  dance  around, 
For  this  place  is  fairy  ground. 

When  mortals  are  at  rest, 
And  snoring  in  their  nest, 
Unheard  and  unespied 
Through  keyholes  we  do  glide  : 
Over  tables,  stools,  and  shelves, 
We  trip  it  with  our  fairy  elves. 

Upon  a  mushroom's  head 
Our  tablecloth  is  spread  ; 
A  grain  of  rye  or  wheat 
Is  manchet,  which  we  eat ; 
Pearly  drops  of  dew  we  drink, 
In  acorn-cups  filled  to  the  brink. 


122  THE   FAIRY   QUEEN. 

The  brains  of  nightingales, 
"With  unctuous  fat  of  snails, 
Between  two  cockles  stewed, 
Is  meat  that's  easily  chewed : 
Tails  of  worms,  and  marrow  of  mice, 
Do  make  a  dish  that's  wondrous  nice. 

The  grasshopper,  gnat,  and  fly- 
Serve  for  our  minstrelsie  : 
Grace  said,  we  dance  awhile, 
And  so  the  time  beguile. 
And,  if  the  moon  doth  hide  her  head, 
The  glow-worm  lights  us  home  to  bed. 

On  tops  of  dewy  grass 
So  nimbly  do  we  pass, 
The  young  and  tender  stalk 
Ne'er  bends  when  we  do  walk ; 
Yet,  in  the  morning,  may  be  seen 
Where  we  the  night  before  have  been. 


Ben  Jonson 


FAIRIES.  123 


FAIRIES. 


O  ye  little  tricksey  gods  ! 

Tell  me  where  ye  sleep  o'  nights, 

Where  ye  laugh  and  weep  o'  nights  ! 
Is  it  in  the  velvet  pods 
Of  the  drooping  violets,  — 
In  the  purple  palaces, 
Scooped  and  shaped  like  chalices  ? 

Or  beneath  the  silver  bend, 

In  among  the  cooling  jets, 

Of  iris-haunted,  wood  cascades, 

That  tumble  down  from  porphyry  heights  ? 
Do  ye  doze  in  rose-leaf  boats, 
Where  the  dreamy  streamlet  floats, 
Full  of  fish  and  phosphorus  motes, 

Through  the  heart  of  pleasant  glades  ? 

When  we  crush  a  pouting  bloom, 

Ten  to  one  we  kill  a  Fairy ! 
May  be  that  the  light  perfume 

In  our  nostrils,  sweet  and  any, 
Is  the  spirit  of  the  Fairy 
Floating  upward.     Oh,  be  wary  ! 
Who  can  tell  what  size  or  make 
The  wilful  little  beings  take  ? 
There's  a  bird ;  now,  who  can  say 
Tia  a  robin,  or  a  fay? 


124  the  fairies'  dance. 

Why  may  not  immortal  things 
Go  on  red  and  yellow  wings  ? 
Lo  !  I  see  some  dewdrops  there 
Glistening  in  the  amber  hair 

In  the  waving  tufts  of  corn. 
Are  they  eyes  of  "  little  folks," 
Giving,  with  their  roguish  looks, 

Fresher  beauty  to  the  morn  ? 

T.  B.  Aldrich. 


THE   FAIRIES'   DANCE. 

When  do  the  Fairies  dance  ?  you  ask  : 
When  they  have  finished  their  daily  task,  — 
Have  painted  each  flower  with  its  varied  hue, 
And  touched  the  sky  with  a  deeper  blue, 
Folding  the  gentian's  soft  fringe  up, 
Gilding  the  bowl  of  the  buttercup, 
Hanging  the  spider's  web  with  dew, 
Till  it  seemed  as  if  there  the  diamonds  grew. 

Low  in  the  west,  like  a  chandelier, 
Rises  the  moon,  so  bright  and  clear, 
And  the  stars  come  forth,  as  if  to  view 
What  the  Fairies  were  going  to  do. 


A   FAIEY    PALACE.  125 

Down  in  the  grass,  so  soft  and  green, 

A  tufted  emerald  ring  is  seen ; 

In  the  centre  a  rose  they  place, 

The  throne  which  the  Fairy  queen  will  grace, 

And  the  rose-leaves  seem  in  love  to  cling 

Round  the  bright  form  of  the  beautiful  thin^. 

And  now  the  day's  work  all  is  done, 

The  music  sounds,  and  the  revel's  begun. 

Julie  Leonard. 


A   FAIRY   PALACE. 

This  palace  standeth  in  the  air, 
By  necromancy  placed  there, 
That  it  no  tempest  needs  to  fear, 

Which  way  soe'er  it  blow  it : 
And  somewhat  southward  tow'rd  the  noon, 
Whence  lies  a  way  up  to  the  moon, 
And  thence  the  Fairy  can  as  soon 

Pass  to  the  earth  below  it. 
The  walls  of  spiders'  legs  are  made, 
Well  morticed  and  finely  laid  ; 
He  was  the  master  of  his  trade 

It  curiously  that  builded  : 

The  windows  of  the  eyes  of  cats  ; 

And  for  the  roof,  instead  of  slats, 

Is  covered  with  the  skins  of  bats 

With  moonshine  that  are  gilded. 

Drayton. 


126       A  FAIRY  BED.  FAIRY  FAVORS. 


A    FAIRY    BED. 

Of  leaves  of  roses,  white  and  red, 
Shall  be  the  covering  of  the  bed  ; 
The  curtains,  valance,  tester,  all 
Shall  be  the  flower  imperial ; 
And,  for  a  fringe,  it  all  along 
With  azure  harebells  shall  be  hun£. 
Of  lilies  shall  the  pillows  be, 
With  down  stuffed  of  the  butterfly. 

Drayton. 


FAIRY    FAVORS. 


Titania. 


Be  kind  and  courteous  to  this  gentleman ; 
Hop  in  his  walks,  and  gambol  in  his  eyes ; 
Feed  him  with  apricots  and  dewberries, 
With  purple  grapes,  green  figs,  and  mulberries  : 
The  honey-bags  steal  from  the  humble-bees, 
And  for  night-tapers  crop  their  waxen  thighs, 
And  light  them  at  the  fiery  glow-worm's  eyes, 
To  have  my  love  to  bed,  and  to  arise  : 
And  pluck  the  wings  from  painted  butterflies, 
To  fan  the  moonbeams  from  his  sleeping  eyes. 
Nod  to  him,  elves,  and  do  him  courtesies. 

SlIAKSPEABB. 


FAIRY   TORMENTS. QUEEN  MAB.  127 


FAIRY    TORMENTS. 

"  Buzz,"  quoth  the  blue  fly  ; 

"  Hum,"  quoth  the  bee  ; 
"Buzz"  and  "Hum,"  they  cry, 

And  so  do  we. 
In  his  ear,  in  his  nose, 

Thus,  do  you  see? 

He  ate  the  dormouse  ; 

Else  it  was  he. 

Ben  Jonson. 


QUEEN    MAB. 

Oh,  then,  I  see,  Queen  Mab  hath  been  with  you  ! 

She  is  the  Fairies'  midwife ;  and  she  comes 

In  shape  no  bigger  than  an  agate-stone 

On  the  forefinger  of  an  alderman, 

Drawn  with  a  team  of  little  atomies 

Athwart  men's  noses  as  they  lie  asleep  : 

Her  wagon-spokes  made  of  long  spinners'  legs  ; 

The  cover,  of  the  wings  of  grasshoppers  ; 

The  traces,  of  the  smallest  spider's  web ; 

The  collars,  of  the  moonshine's  watery  beams  ; 

Her  whip,  of  crickets'  bone;  the  lash,  of  film; 

Her  wagoner,  a  small,  gray-coated  gnat, 


128  MOTHER   FAIRIE. 

Not  half  so  big  as  a  round  little  worm 
Pricked  from  the  lazy  finger  of  a  maid  : 
Her  chariot  is  an  empty  hazel-nut, 
Made  by  the  joiner-squirrel,  or  old  grub, 
Time  out  of  mind  the  Fairies'  coachmakers. 
And  in  this  state  she  gallops,  night  by  night, 
Through  lovers'  brains,  and  then  they  dream  of  love  ; 
On  courtiers'  knees,  that  dream  of  court'sies  straight ; 
O'er  lawyers'  fingers,  who  straight  dream  of  fees  ; 
O'er  ladies'  lips,  who  straight  on  kisses  dream, — 
Which  oft  the  angry  Mab  with  blisters  plagues, 
Because  their  breaths  with  sweetmeats  tainted  are. 
Sometime  she  gallops  o'er  a  courtier's  nose, 
And  then  dreams  he  of  smelling  out  a  suit ; 
Sometimes  she  driveth  o'er  a  soldier's  neck, 
And  then  dreams  he  of  cutting  foreign  throats, 
Of  breaches,  ambuscadoes,  Spanish  blades, 
Of  healths  five  fathom  deep;  and  then,  anon, 
Drums  in  his  ear,  at  which  he  starts  and  wakes. 

Shakspeare. 


MOTHER    FAIRIE. 

Good  old  Mother  Fairie, 
Sitting  by  your  fire, 

Have  you  any  little  folks 
You  would  like  to  hire  ? 


MOTHER   FAIEIE.  129 

I  want  no  chubby  drudges 

To  milk  and  churn  and  spin, 
Nor  old  and  wrinkled  brownies 

With  grizzly  beards  and  thin ; 

But  patient  little  people, 

With  hands  of  busy  care, 
Of  gentle  speech,  and  loving  hearts,  — 

Say,  have  you  such  to  spare? 

I  know  a  poor,  pale  body, 

"Who  cannot  sleep  at  night, 
And  I  want  the  little  people 

To  keep  her  chamber  bright ; 

To  chase  away  the  shadows 

That  make  her  moan  and  weep ; 
To  sin 2f  her  loving  lullabies, 

And  kiss  her  eyes  asleep  ; 

And  when  in  dreams  she  reaches 

For  pleasures  dead  and  gone, 
To  hold  her  wasting  fingers, 

And  make  the  rings  stay  on. 

They  must  be  very  cunning 

To  make  the  future  shine, 
Like  leaves  and  flowers  and  strawberries 

A  growing  on  one  vine. 


130  THE    ANSWER. 

Good  old  Mother  Fairic, 

Since  now  my  need  you  know, 

Tell  me,  have  you  any  folk 
Wise  enough  to  go  ? 


Alice  Carey. 


THE    ANSWER. 

O  Alice,  Alice  Carey  ! 

You  truly  meant  to  joke, 
Asking  old  Mother  Fairie 

To  hire  her  little  folk. 

My  people  all  are  ready 
To  give  their  friendly  aid ; 

But,  mind  you,  fairie  favors 
Can  never  be  repaid. 

Within  my  crystal  palace 
Lives  many  a  little  fay, 

Who,  for  the  love  of  Alice, 
Would  labor  night  and  day. 

Go,  tell  that  poor  pale  body, 
Who  cannot  sleep  o'  nights, 

My  meek-eyed  daughter,  Patience, 
Will  set  her  room  to  rights ; 


THE   ANSWER.  131 

That  Faith  and  Hope  (twin  sisters) 

"Will  by  her  pillow  stand, 
And  sing  her  loving  sonnets 

About  the  better  land. 


She'll  listen  to  their  numbers, 

Forgetful  of  her  cares, 
Till  soft  and  quiet  slumbers 

Steal  o'er  her  unawares. 

In  dreams  no  longer  reaching 
To  pleasures  dead  and  gone, 

Her  fingers,  pointing  upwards, 
Will  let  the  rings  stay  on. 

Go,  tell  that  poor  pale  body 
To  take  the  Wand  of  Prayer, 

And,  when  she  wants  the  fairies, 
To  wave  it  in  the  ah' ; 

And,  though  she  cannot  see  them, 
Yet,  with  their  still,  small  voice. 

They'll  whisper  words  of  comfort, 
And  make  her  heart  rejoice. 


THE   PARENT'S   PRAYER. 

ATHER  of  all !  whose  sovereign  will 
Hath  called  thy  servant  to  fulfil 

The  parent's  tender  part ; 
With  gifts  and  graces  from  above, 
With  calmest  and  with  wisest  love, 
Inspire  my  erring  heart. 


Oh  may  I  every  moment  see 
The  end  for  which  alone  to  me 

Thou  hast  my  children  given  !  — 
A  blessed  instrument  divine, 
Through  thee,  to  make  and  keep  them  thine, 

And  train  them  up  to  heaven. 

[135] 


136  the  mother's  work. 

My  first  concern  their  souls  to  rear, 
And  teach  their  feet  with  holy  fear 

In  virtue's  paths  to  tread  ; 
Their  hunger  after  thee  excite, 
And  stir  them  up  with  all  their  might 

To  seek  their  living  bread. 


Assist  me  in  this  work  of  love, 
My  earnest  eiforts  to  approve 

To  thy  all-seeing  eye. 
And  now  a  Father's  blessing  give, 
And  let  them  in  thy  service  live, 

Or  innocently  die. 


C.  Wesley. 


THE   MOTHER'S   WORK. 

Stay  not  for  grand  endeavor, 

Worthy  a  martyr's  meed, 
While  in  vain  the  Master  proffers 

The  trust,  His  lambs  to  feed. 
It  may  be  thy  share  of  service 

His  purpose  to  complete, 
If  steadfastly  thou  guidest 

Those  wayward  little  feet. 


THE   EVENING   PRAYER.  137 

One  little  footstep  passing 

The  path  that  Jesus  trod  ; 
One  little  spirit  resting 

In  loving  faith  on  God ; 
One  little  life  more  earnest, 

More  hopeful,  and  more  pure,  — 
And  in  an  angel's  record 

Thy  lifework  shall  endure. 


THE    EVENING    PRAYER. 

In  the  solemn  shade  of  the  twilight  sky, 
"Which  tells  of  another  day  gone  by ; 
In  the  hush  of  thy  home,  so  calm  and  free,  — 
Thou  art  kneeling,  child,  at  thy  mother's  knee  ! 

And  they  that  kneel  in  the  proudest  fane, 
Of  sculptured  pillar  and  pictured  pane, 
Of  breathing  censer  and  jewelled  shrine, 
Have  found  no  altar  more  blest  than  thine. 

For  there  thou  hast  learned  to  praise  His  might, 
Who  guides  the  march  of  the  day  and  night ; 
And  there  thou  hast  learned  to  seek  His  grace, 
Who  makes  with  the  meek  his  dwelling-place. 


138 

Say,  will  that  lesson  long  abide, 
When  thou  art  far  from  thy  mother's  side  ; 
AY  hen  the  hair  is  gray,  or  the  grave  is  green, 
Of  her  that  thine  earliest  love  has  been ; 

When  the  snares  of  life  are  around  thee  set, 

And  the  cares  have  come  which  thou  knowest  not  yet ; 

When  business  calls  thee  at  early  day, 

And  memories  deepen  the  evening's  gray  ? 

Whate'er  the  course  of  thine  after-track, 
Whate'er  the  change,  will  thy  heart  come  back, 
In  spite  of  sin  and  in  spite  of  snare, 
To  thy  mother's  knee,  and  thine  evening  prayer? 


A  MOTHER'S  MORNING  PRAYER. 

Up  to  me  sweet  childhood  looketh, 
Heart  and  mind  and  soul  awake  ; 
Teach  me  of  thy  ways,  O  Father  ! 
For  sweet  childhood's  sake. 

In  their  young  hearts,  soft  and  tender, 

Guide  my  hand  good  seed  to  sow, 
That  its  blossoming  may  praise  thee 
Wheresoe'er  they  go. 


BAPTISM.  139 

Give  to  me  a  cheerful  spirit, 

That  my  little  flock  may  see 
It  is  good  and  pleasant  service 
To  be  taught  of  thee. 

Father,  order  all  my  footsteps  ; 

So  direct  my  daily  way, 
That,  in  following  me,  the  children 
May  not  go  astray. 

Let  thy  holy  counsel  lead  me, 

Let  thy  light  before  me  shine, 
That  they  may  not  stumble  over 
Word  or  deed  of  mine. 

Draw  us  hand  in  hand  to  Jesus, 

For  his  Word's  sake,  unforgot,  — 
"Let  the  little  ones  come  to  me, 
And  forbid  them  not." 


BAPTISM. 

In  token  that  thou  shalt  not  fear 

Christ  crucified  to  own, 
We  print  the  cross  upon  thee  here, 

And  stamp  thee  his  alone. 


140  THE  children's   hymn. 

In  token  that  thou  shalt  not  blush 

To  glory  in  his  name, 
We  blazen  here  upon  thy  front 

His  glory  and  his  shame. 

In  token  that  thou  shalt  not  flinch 

Christ's  quarrel  to  maintain, 
But  'neath  his  banner  manfully 

Firm  at  thy  post  remain ; 

In  token  that  thou  too  shalt  tread 

The  path  he  travelled  by, 
Endure  the  cross,  despise  the  shame, 

And  sit  thee  down  on  high,  — 

Thus,  outwardly  and  visibly, 

We  seal  thee  for  his  own  ; 

And  may  the  brow  that  bears  his  cross 

Hereafter  share  his  crown  ! 

Henry  Alford 


THE   CHILDREN'S    HYMN. 

Sing  to  the  Lord  the  children's  hymn ; 

His  gentle  love  declare, 
Who  bends,  amid  the  cherubim, 

To  hear  the  children's  prayer. 


THE    CHILDREN'S    HYMX.  141 

He  at  a  mother's  breast  was  fed, 

Though  God's  own  Son  was  he ; 
He  learned  the  first  small  words  he  said, 

At  a  meek  mother's  knee. 

He  held  us  to  his  mighty  breast,  — 

The  children  of  the  earth ; 
He  lifted  up  his  hands,  and  blessed 

The  babes  of  human  birth. 

Although  he  is  the  Son  of  God, 

Our  gracious  Saviour  too, 
The  scenes  we  tread  his  footsteps  trod, 

The  paths  of  youth  he  knew. 

And  from  the  stars  his  face  will  turn 

On  us  with  glances  mild  : 
The  angels  of  his  presence  yearn 

To  bless  the  little  child. 

Sing  to  the  Lord  the  children's  hymn ; 

His  gentle  love  declare, 
Who  bends,  amid  the  cherubim, 

To  hear  the  children's  prayer. 


142  THE    OLDEST   CHRISTIAN   HYMN. 


THE   OLDEST   CHRISTIAN   HYMN. 

Shepherd  of  tender  youth, 
Guiding,  in  love  and  truth, 

Through  devious  ways ; 
Christ,  our  triumphant  King, 
We  come  thy  name  to  sing, 
And  here  our  children  bring 

To  shout  thy  praise  ! 

Thou  art  our  holy  Lord, 
The  all-subduing  Word,  — 

Healer  of  strife. 
Thou  didst  thyself  abase, 
That  from  sin's  deep  disgrace 
Thou  mightest  save  our  race, 

And  give  us  life. 

Thou  art  Wisdom's  high-priest ; 
Thou  hast  prepared  the  feast 

Of  holy  love  : 
And,  in  our  mortal  pain, 
None  calls  on  thee  in  vain  ; 
Help  thou  dost  not  disdain,  — 
Help  from  above. 


THE    BETTER   LAXD.  143 

Ever  be  thus  our  guide, 
Our  shepherd  and  our  pride, 

Our  staff  and  song. 
Jesus,  thou  Christ  of  God, 
By  thy  perennial  word 
Lead  us  where  thou  hast  trod,  — 

Make  our  faith  strong. 

So  now,  and  till  we  die, 

Sound  we  thy  praises  high, 

And  joyful  sing. 

Infants,  and  the  glad  throng 

Who  to  thy  Church  belong, 

Unite,  and  swell  the  song 

To  Christ,  our  King. 

Lyra  Domestica 


THE   BETTER  LAXD. 

Whither,  pilgrims,  are  you  going, 
Each  with  staff  in  hand? 

"  We  are  going  on  a  journey, 
At  the  King's  command. 

Over  plains  and  hills  and  valleys, 

We  are  going  to  his  palace 
In  the  better  land." 


144  TIIE   BETTER   LA>sD. 

Fear  ye  not  the  way  so  lonely,  — 

You,  a  feeble  band? 
w  No  ;  for  friends  unseen  are  near  us  ; 

Angels  round  us  stand  : 
Christ,  our  leader,  walks  beside  us  ; 
He  will  guard  us,  —  he  will  guide  us 

To  the  better  land." 

Tell  me,  pilgrims,  what  you  hope  for 

In  the  better  land  ? 
"Spotless  robes,  and  crowns  of  glory, 

From  a  Saviour's  hand. 
We  shall  drink  of  Life's  clear  river, 
We  shall  dwell  with  God  for  ever, 

In  the  better  land." 

Will  you  let  me  travel  with  you 

To  the  better  land? 
"  Come  away  :  we  bid  you  welcome 

To  our  little  band. 
Come,  oh  come  !  we  cannot  leave  you  ; 
Christ  is  waiting  to  receive  you 

In  the  better  land." 


THE   UNSEEN   WORLD.  145 


THE  UNSEEN  WORLD. 

There  is  a  state,  unknown,  unseen, 

Where  parted  souls  must  be ; 
And  but  a  step  doth  lie  between 

That  world  of  souls  and  me. 

I  see  no  light,  I  hear  no  sound, 

"When  midnight  shades  are  spread ; 

Yet  angels  pitch  their  tents  around, 
And  guard  my  quiet  bed. 

The  things  unseen,  O  God  !  reveal ; 

My  spirit's  vision  clear. 
Till  I  shall  feel  and  see  and  know 

The  heavenly  world  is  near. 

Impart  the  faith  that  soars  on  high, 

Beyond  this  earthly  strife ; 

That  holds  sweet  converse  with  the  sky, 

And  lives  eternal  life. 

Hriixs  of  the  Spirit 


10 


141)         "the  kingdom  of  god  is  within. " 


THE   KINGDOM   OF    GOD   IS   WITHIN." 

The  shining  worlds  that  float  in  space, 
The  glittering  orbs  that  deck  the  sky, 
Are  not  our  Father's  dwelling-place : 
His  home  is  ever  nigh. 

God's  kingdom  is  a  world  within 

The  heart  of  every  breathing  child 
That  throbs  with  love,  or  burns  with  sin, 
Or  leaps  with  passion  Avild. 

'Tis  not  in  some  far-distant  realm, 

Where  saints  escape  the  avenging  rod ; 
'Tis  not  where  lurid  flames  o'erwhelm 
The  accursed  of  God  ; 

'Tis  not  in  missal  golden  bound  ; 

'Tis  not  in  priestly  vest  or  stole  ; 

'Tis  not  in  forms  that  God  is  found,  — 

'Tis  in  the  human  soul. 

W.  A.  Danskin. 


MY   SHEPHERD.  147 

MY    SHEPHERD. 

Great  Shepherd  of  the  sheep, 
Who  all  thy  flock  doth  keep, 

Leading  by  waters  calm, 
Do  thou  my  footsteps  guide, 
To  follow  by  thy  side ; 

Make  me  thy  little  lamb. 

I  fear  I  may  be  torn 

By  many  a  sharp-set  thorn, 

As  far  from  thee  I  stray  : 
My  weary  feet  may  bleed, 
For  rough  are  paths  which  lead 

Out  of  thy  pleasant  way. 

But,  when  the  road  is  long, 
Thy  tender  arm,  and  strong, 

The  weary  one  will  bear  ; 
And  thou  wilt  wash  me  clean, 
And  lead  to  pastures  green, 

Where  all  the  flowers  are  fair : 

Till,  from  the  soil  of  sin, 
Cleansed  and  made  pure  within, 
Dear  Saviour,  whose  I  am, 
Thou  bringest  me  in  love 
To  thy  sweet  fold  above,  — 
A  little  snow-white  lamb. 

Sung  by  Children  at  the  Five  Points,  N.Y 


148  "remember  thy  creator,"  etc. 


REMEMBER  THY   CREATOR   IN   THE   DAYS 
OF   THY   YOUTH." 

In  the  soft  season  of  thy  youth, 

In  nature's  smiling  bloom, 
Ere  age  arrive,  and,  trembling,  wait 

Its  summons  to  the  tomb,  — 

Eemember  thy  Creator,  God  ; 

For  him  thy  powers  employ ; 
Make  him  thy  fear,  thy  love,  thy  hope, 

Thy  confidence,  thy  joy. 

He  shall  defend  and  guide  thy  course 

Through  life's  uncertain  sea, 
Till  thou  art  landed  on  the  shore 

Of  blest  eternity. 

Then  seek  the  Lord  betimes,  and  choose 

The  path  of  heavenly  truth  : 

The  earth  affords  no  lovelier  sight 

Than  a  religious  youth. 

Salisbury  Collection 


EARLY   PIETY. THE    PURE    HEART.  149 


EARLY    PIETY. 

\Yhex  children  give  their  hearts  to  God, 

Tis  pleasing  in  his  eyes  : 
A  flower,  when  offered  in  the  bud, 

Is  no  vain  sacrifice. 

It  saves  us  from  a  thousand  snares 

To  mind  religion  voung  ; 
Grace  will  preserve  our  following  years, 

And  make  our  virtues  strong. 

To  thee,  Almighty  God,  to  thee, 

May  we  our  hearts  resign  ; 
'Twill  please  us  to  look  back,  and  see 

That  our  whole  lives  were  thine. 

Isaac  Watts 


THE   PURE    HEART. 

"Whatever  dims  thy  sense  of  truth, 

Or  stains  thy  purity, 
Though  light  as  breath  of  summer  air, 

Count  it  as  sin  to  thee. 


150  GOD. 

Preserve  the  tablet  of  thy  thoughts 
From  every  blemish  free, 

While  the  Redeemer's  lowly  faith 
Its  temple  makes  with  thee. 

And  pray  of  God,  that  grace  be  given 
To  tread  time's  narrow  way  : 

How  dark  soever  it  may  be, 
It  leads  to  endless  day. 


M.  W.  Hale 


GOD. 

God  !  —  what  a  great  and  awful  word  ! 

Oh  !  who  can  speak  his  worth  ? 
By  saints  in  heaven  he  is  adored, 

And  feared  by  men  on  earth  ; 
And  yet  a  little  child  may  bend, 
And  say,  "my  Father  and  my  Friend/' 

The  glorious  sun  which  blazes  high, 
The  moon  more  pale  and  dim, 

And  all  the  stars  which  fill  the  sky, 
Are  made  and  ruled  by  him  ; 

And  yet  a  child  may  ask  his  care, 

And  call  upon  his  name  in  prayer. 


THE    GREAT    TEACHER.  151 

And  this  large  world  of  ours  below, 

The  waters  and  the  land, 
And  all  the  trees  and  flowers  that  grow, 

TTere  fashioned  by  his  hand  : 
Yes  ;  and  he  forms  our  infant  race, 
And  even  I  may  seek  his  face. 

Jaxe  Taylor. 


THE    GREAT   TEACHER. 

TTho  showed  the  little  ant  the  way 

Her  narrow  hole  to  bore, 
And  spend  the  pleasant  summer  day 

In  laying  up  her  store  ? 

The  sparrow  builds  her  clever  nest 

Of  wool  and  hay  and  moss  : 
Who  told  her  how  to  build  it  best, 

And  lay  the  twigs  across  ? 

TVho  taught  the  busy  bee  to  fly 

Among  the  sweetest  flowers, 
And  lay  his  store  of  honey  by, 

To  eat  in  winter  hours  ? 

'Twas  God  who  showed  them  all  the  way, 

And  gave  their  little  skill, 
And  teaches  children,  if  they  pray, 

To  do  his  holy  will. 


152  GOD   IN   NATURE. BIRTH   OF   CHRIST. 


GOD   IN  NATURE. 

Thou  art,  O  God  !  the  life  and  light 
Of  all  this  wondrous  world  we  see  ; 

Its  glow  by  day,  its  smile  by  night, 
Are  but  reflections  caught  from  thee  : 

Where'er  we  turn,  thy  glories  shine ; 

And  all  things  fair  and  bright  are  thine. 


T.  Moore 


GOD. 

Everlasting  arms  of  love 
Are  beneath,  around,  above  : 
God  it  is  who  bears  us  on ; 
His  the  arm  we  lean  upon. 
He,  our  ever-present  Guide, 
Faithful  is,  whate'er  betide  : 
Gladly,  then,  we  journey  on, 
With  his  arm  to  lean  upon. 


THE   BIRTH   OF   CHRIST. 

While  shepherds  watched  their  flocks  by  night, 

All  seated  on  the  ground, 
The  amiel  of  the  Lord  came  down, 

And  glory  shone  around. 


THE   BIRTH   OF    CHRIST.  153 

"  Fear  not,"  said  he,  —  for  mighty  dread 

Had  seized  their  troubled  mind  ; 
"  Glad  tidings  of  great  joy  I  bring 

To  you  and  all  mankind. 

To  you,  in  David's  town,  this  day 

Is  born,  of  David's  line, 
A  Saviour,  who  is  Christ  the  Lord ; 

And  this  shall  be  the  sign  : 

The  heavenly  Babe  you  there  shall  find 

To  human  view  displayed, 
All  meanly  wrapped  in  swathing  bands, 

And  in  a  manger  laid." 

Thus  spake  the  seraph,  and  forthwith 

Appeared  a  shining  throng 
Of  angels,  praising  God  ;  and  thus 

Arose  their  joyful  song  : 

"  All  glory  be  to  God  on  high , 

And  to  the  earth  be  peace  ; 

Good-will  henceforth  from  Heaven  to  men 

Begin,  and  never  cease  !  " 

Patrick. 


154         CIIPvISTMAS    CAROL. CHRISTMAS   SONG. 


A   CHRISTMAS   CAROL. 

Child  Jesus  comes,  from  heavenly  height, 

To  free  us  from  sin's  keeping  : 
In  manger  straw,  in  darksome  night, 

The  Blessed  One  lies  sleeping. 
The  star  smiles  down,  the  angels  greet, 
The  oxen  kiss  the  Baby's  feet. 

Hallelujah  !  Hallelujah  ! 
Child  Jesus  ! 

Take  courage,  soul,  in  grief  cast  down  ; 

Forget  the  bitter  dealing  : 
A  Child  is  born  in  David's  town, 

To  touch  all  souls  with  healing. 
Then  let  us  go  and  seek  the  Child, 
Children  like  him,  meek,  undefiled. 

Hallelujah  !  Hallelujah  ! 

Child  Jesus  ! 

Traxs.  by  L.  G.  Ware. 


CHRISTMAS   SONG. 

What  shall  we  bring 

Unto  our  King 

For  a  Christmas  offering? 

A  breast  where  love, 

Like  a  brooding  dove, 

Makes  earth  like  heaven  to  prove. 


THE  CHILDHOOD  OF  JESUS.  lo5 

"What  shall  we  ring 

Unto  our  Kin  or 

For  a  Christmas  offering? 

Bing  out  a  chime, 

Through  every  clime, 

To  tell  that  this  is  Christ's  own  time. 

This  shall  we  bring 

Unto  our  King 

For  a  Christmas  offering  : 

Good-will  increase, 

And  all  strife  cease, 

And  every  heart  be  filled  with  peace. 

Julie  Leonard, 


THE    CHILDHOOD   OF   JESUS. 

In  the  green  fields  of  Palestine, 
By  its  fountains  and  its  rills, 

And  by  the  sacred  Jordan's  stream, 
And  o'er  the  vine-clad  hills, 

Once  lived  and  roved  the  fairest  Child 
That  ever  blessed  the  earth  ; 

The  happiest,  the  holiest, 
That  e'er  had  human  birth. 


15G 


How  beautiful  his  childhood  was  ! 

Harmless  and  undefiled  : 
Oh,  dear  to  his  young  mother's  heart 

Was  this  pure,  sinless  child  ! 

Kindly  in  all  his  deeds  and  words, 

And  gentle  as  the  dove ; 
Obedient,  affectionate, 

His  very  soul  was  love  1 

Oh  !  is  it  not  a  blessed  thought, 

Children  of  human  birth, 
That  once  the  Saviour  was  a  child, 

And  lived  upon  the  earth? 


"ONLY  BELIEVE." 

Jesus  said,  with  soothing  voice, 
"Brother,  hast  thou  made  thy  choice? 
Art  thou  striving  to  be  free, 
Earnestly  to  follow  me  ? 

Doth  thy  heart  in  me  believe? 
"When  thou  sinnest,  dost  thou  grieve? 
Heed'st  the  monitor  within, 
When  he  chides  thee  for  thy  sin? 


LOST.  15 


If  thy  fellow-men  transgress 
And  revile  thee,  dost  thou  bless,  - 
Humbly  intercede  for  all, 
Fearing  lest  thyself  may  fall  ? 

Canst  thou  estimate  the  love 
That  could  send  me  from  above, 
To  present  a  Fathers  face, 
Yearning  for  a  fallen  race  ? 

Doth  such  love  thy  bosom  fill, 
Meekly  yielding  to  his  will  ? 
Dost  the  golden  rule  observe, 
Others,  not  thyself,  to  serve? 

Then  thou  dost  believe  in  me, 
And  art  saved,  art  mine,  art  free. 
Brother,  thou  art  born  again  ; 
Shalt  eternal  life  attain." 


LOST. 


S.    SUMXER 


Count  that  day  lost  whose  low  declining  sun 
Sees  at  thv  hand  no  worthv  action  done. 


158  THE   TWO   COMMANDMENTS . LOVE . 


THE   TWO   COMMANDMENTS. 

This  is  the  first  and  great  command,  — 

To  love  thy  God  above  ; 
And  this  the  second,  —  As  thyself 

Thy  neighbor  thou  shalt  love. 

Who  is  thy  neighbor?     He  who  wants 
The  help  which  thou  canst  give  : 

And  both  the  law  and  prophets  say, 
"This  do,  and  thou  shalt  live." 


LOVE. 


Though  I  speak,  with  angel  tongues, 
Bravest  words  of  strength  and  fire, 

They  are  but  as  idle  songs, 
If  no  love  my  heart  inspire  : 

All  the  eloquence  shall  pass 

As  the  noise  of  sounding  brass. 

Though  I  lavish  all  I  have 

On  the  poor,  in  charity  ; 
Though  I  shrink  not  from  the  grave, 

Or  unmoved  the  stake  can  see,  — 
Till  by  love  the  work  be  crowned, 
All  shall  profitless  be  found. 


Roscoe. 


Lange 


LOVE    ONE   ANOTHER.  159 


LOVE   ONE  ANOTHER. 

Let  dogs  delight  to  bark  and  bite, 
For  God  hath  made  them  so ; 

Let  bears  and  lions  growl  and  fight, 
For  'tis  their  nature  too  : 

But,  children,  you  should  never  let 

Such  angry  passions  rise  ; 
Your  little  hands  were  never  made 

To  tear  each  other's  eyes. 

Let  love  through  all  your  actions  run, 
And  all  your  words  be  mild ; 

Live  like  the  blessed  Virgin's  son, 
That  sweet  and  lovely  child. 

His  soul  was  gentle  as  a  lamb ; 

And,  as  his  stature  grew, 
He  grew  in  favor  both  with  man, 

And  God  his  Father  too. 

Now,  Lord  of  all,  he  reigns  above ; 

And,  from  his  heavenly  throne, 
He  sees  what  children  dwell  in  love, 

And  marks  them  for  his  own. 


1 60  FORGIVENESS, 


FORGIVENESS. 

Think  gently  of  the  erring  one ; 

Oh,  let  us  not  forget, 
However  darkly  stained  by  sin, 

He  is  our  brother  yet ! 
Heir  of  the  same  inheritance, 

Child  of  the  self-same  God, 
He  hath  but  fallen  in  the  path 

We  have  in  weakness  trod. 

Speak  gently  to  the  erring  ones  : 

We  yet  may  lead  them  back, 
With  holy  words,  and  tones  of  love, 

From  misery's  thorny  track. 
Forget  not,  brother,  thou  hast  sinned, 

And  sinful  yet  may'st  be ; 

Deal  gently  with  the  erring  heart, 

As  God  hath  dealt  with  thee. 

Miss  Fletcher. 


One  lesson,  shepherd,  let  us  two  divide, 

Taught  by  what  Nature  shows,  and  what  conceals, — 
Never  to  blend  our  pleasure  or  our  pride 

With  sorrow  of  the  meanest  thing  that  feels. 

Wordsworth. 


CONSCIENCE . BE    TRUE .  161 


CONSCIENCE. 

Gite  forth  thine  earnest  cry, 
O  conscience,  voice  of  God  ! 
To  young  and  old,  to  low  and  high, 
Proclaim  his  will  abroad. 

Within  the  human  breast 
Thy  strong  monitions  plead ; 
Still  thunder  thy  divine  protest 
Against  the  unrighteous  deed. 

Show  the  true  way  of  peace, 
O  thou  our  guiding  Light ! 
From  bondage  of  the  wrong  release, 


To  service  of  the  right. 


Hymxs  of  the  Spirit. 


BE    TRUE. 

Thou  must  be  true  thyself, 

If  thou  the  truth  would'st  teach ; 

Thy  soul  must  overflow,  if  thou 
Another's  soul  would'st  reach  : 

It  needs  the  overflow  of  heart 
To  give  the  lips  full  speech. 
11 


162      THE  GOLDEN  RULE. THE  SOUL. 

Think  truly,  and  thy  thoughts 
Shall  the  world's  famine  feed ; 

Speak  truly,  and  each  word  of  thine 
Shall  be  a  fruitful  seed ; 

Live  truly,  and  thy  life  shall  be 
A  great  and  noble  creed. 


Bonak. 


THE    GOLDEN   RULE. 

To  do  to  others  as  I  would 
That  they  should  do  to  me, 

Will  make  me  honest,  kind,  and  good, 
As  children  ought  to  be. 

Whether  I  am  at  home,  or  school, 

Or  walking  out  abroad, 
I  never  should  forget  this  rule 

Of  Jesus  Christ,  our  Lord. 


THE     SOUL. 

What  is  this  that  stirs  within, 
Loving  goodness,  hating  sin, 
Always  craving  to  be  blest, 
Finding  here  below  no  rest  ? 


THE    WANT    WITHIN.  163 

Naught  that  charms  the  ear  or  eye 

Can  its  hunger  satisfy  : 
Active,  restless,  it  would  pierce 
Through  the  outward  universe. 

Trhat  is  it?  and  whither,  whence, 
This  unsleeping,  secret  sense  ; 
Longing  for  its  rest  and  food 
In  some  hidden,  untried  good? 

'Tis  the  Soul !  —  mysterious  name  ! 
Him  it  seeks  from  whom  it  came  : 
It  would,  mighty  God,  like  thee, 
Holy,  holy,  holy  be  ! 

FlTBNESS. 


THE   WANT  WITHIN. 

I  feel  within  a  want 
For  ever  burning  there  : 

What  I  so  thirst  for,  grant, 
O  thou  who  hearest  prayer ! 

This  is  the  thing  I  crave,  — 
A  likeness  to  thy  Son  ; 

This  would  I  rather  have 

Than  call  the  world  my  own. 


164  GOOD   LIFE,    LONG    LIFE. 

Like  him,  now,  in  my  youth, 
I  long,  O  God  !  to  be, 

In  tenderness  and  truth, 
In  sweet  humility. 

'Tis  my  most  fervent  prayer, 
Be  it  more  fervent  still ; 

Be  it  mv  highest  care, 
Be  it  mv  settled  will ! 


FuKXESS 


GOOD   LIFE,   LONG   LIFE. 

He  liveth  long  who  liveth  well ; 

All  else  is  life  but  flung  away  : 
He  liveth  longest  who  can  tell 

Of  true  things  truly  done  each  day. 

Then  fill  each  hour  with  what  will  last ; 

Buy  up  the  moments  as  they  go  : 
The  life  above,  when  this  is  past, 

Is  the  ripe  fruit  of  life  below. 

Sow  love,  and  taste  its  fruitage  pure ; 

Sow  peace,  and  reap  its  harvest  bright ; 
Sow  sunbeams  on  the  rock  and  moor, 

And  find  a  harvest-home  of  light. 

H.    BONAR. 


SEEDS. THE    HOXEST   MAN.  165 


SEEDS. 

A  wonderful  thing  is  a  seed,  — 

The  one  thing  deathless  for  ever  ! 

The  one  thing  changeless,  utterly  true, 

For  ever  old  and  for  ever  new, 

And  fickle  and  faithless  never. 

Plant  blessings,  and  blessings  will  bloom ; 

Plant  hate,  and  hate  will  grow  : 
You  can  sow  to-dav,  — to-morrow  shall  brino; 
The  blossom  that  proves  what  sort  of  thing 

Is  the  seed,  — the  seed  that  you  sow. 


THE   HOXEST   MAX. 

Oh  !  who,  before  the  righteous  God, 
Shall  uncondemned  appear? 

The  man  whose  soul  abides  with  truth, 
In  deed  and  thought  sincere  ;  — 

The  man  whose  heart  from  guile  is  pure, 
Whose  hands  from  bribes  are  free  ; 

"Who  honest  poverty  prefers 
To  gainful  perjury  ;  — 


166  A   LIE. SMALL    SERVICE. 

The  man  who  to  his  plighted  word 

Has  ever  firmly  stood  ; 
Who,  though  he  promise  to  his  hurt, 

Still  makes  his  promise  good. 


A     LIE. 


A  thistle  grew  in  a  sluggard's  croft, 
Rough  and  rank  with  a  thorny  growth, 

With  its  spotted  leaves  and  its  purple  flowers 
(Blossoms  of  Sin,  and  bloom  of  Sloth); 

Slowly  it  ripened  its  baneful  seeds, 

And  away  they  went  in  swift  gray  showers. 

But  every  seed  was  cobweb  winged, 

And  they  spread  o'er  a  hundred  miles  of  land  : 
'Tis  centuries  now  since  they  first  took  flight, 

In  that  careless,  gay,  and  mischievous  band, 
Yet  still  they  are  blooming  and  ripening  fast, 
And  spreading  their  evil  by  day  and  night. 

Chambers's  Journal. 


SMALL   SERVICE. 

Small  service  is  true  service,  while  it  lasts ; 

Of  friends,  however  humble,  scorn  not  one  : 
The  daisy,  by  the  shadow  that  it  casts, 

Protects  the  lingering  dewdrop  from  the  sun. 

Wordsworth 


MORXIXG   HYMN.  167 


MORXIXG    HYMN. 

The  morning  bright, 

With  rosy  light, 
Has  waked  me  from  my  sleep 

Father,  I  own 

Thy  love  alone 
Thy  little  one  doth  keep. 

All  through  the  day, 

I  humbly  pray. 
Be  thou  my  guard  and  guide  ; 

My  sins  forgive, 

And  let  me  live, 
Blessed  Jesus,  near  thy  side. 

Oh,  make  thy  rest 

"Within  my  breast, 
Great  spirit  of  all  grace  ! 

Make  me  like  thee, 

Then  I  shall  be 
Prepared  to  see  thy  face. 


1*58  EVENING    HYMN. 


EVENING    HYMN. 

Jesus,  holy  Saviour, 

In  thy  tender  love, 
Teach  us,  little  children, 

To  be  like  the  dove  ; 

Kind  and  very  loving 
To  our  playmates  all : 

Into  angry  passions 
Never  let  us  fall. 

So  that,  when  night  cometh, 
And  Ave  kneel  to  pray, 

We  may  look  in  gladness 
On  our  well-spent  day  ; 

And  may  feel  thy  blessing 
Fill  each  little  breast, 

Like  a  soft  caressing, 
As  we  go  to  rest. 


Julie  Leonard 


LITTLE    STARS   ARE    SHINING.  169 


LITTLE   STARS  ARE   SHINING. 

Little  stars  are  shining 

In  the  evening  sky  : 
Little  hearts  are  praying 

To  the  God  on  high. 

Little  tongues  are  saving 

Holy  songs  of  praise, 
Seeking  to  be  strengthened 

In  all  holy  ways. 

Little  hands  are  folded 

Meekly  on  each  breast, 
Asking  for  a  blessing 

Ere  they  go  to  rest. 

Little  eyes  are  sleeping, 

Little  feet  are  still ; 

But  God's  angels  watch  o'er  all 

"Who  have  done  his  will. 

Julie  Leonard. 


W^atch  o'er  a  little  child  to-night, 
Blest  Saviour,  from  above ; 

And  keep  me,  till  the  morning  light, 
"Within  thy  arms  of  love. 


170  ON   GOING  TO   REST. 


ON   GOING  TO   REST. 

The  day  is  past  and  gone, 
The  evening  shades  appear  ; 

Oh,  may  we  all  remember  well, 
The  night  of  death  draws  near  ! 

We  lay  our  garments  by, 

Upon  our  beds  to  rest : 
So  death  will  soon  disrobe  us  all 

Of  what  is  here  possessed. 

Lord,  keep  us  safe  this  night, 
Secure  from  all  our  fears  ; 

May  angels  guard  us  while  we  sleep, 
Till  morning  light  appears. 

And  when  we  early  rise, 

And  view  the  unwearied  sun, 

May  we  set  out  to  win  the  prize, 
And  after  glory  run  ! 

And  when  our  days  are  past, 
And  we  from  time  remove, 

Oh,  may  we  in  thy  bosom  rest !  — 
The  bosom  of  thy  love. 


AX   E VEXING    SOXG.  171 


AN   EVENING   SONG. 

How  radiant  the  evening  skies  ! 

Broad  wing  of  blue  in  heaven  unfurled  ; 
God  watching,  with  a  thousand  eyes, 

The  welfare  of  a  sleeping  world. 

He  rolls  the  sun  to  its  decline, 

And  speeds  it  on  to  realms  afar, 
To  let  the  modest  glow-worm  shine, 

And  man  behold  the  evening  star. 

He  lights  the  wild-flower  in  the  Avood , 

He  rocks  the  sparrow  in  her  nest ; 
He  guides  the  angels  on  their  road, 

That  come  to  guard  us  while  we  rest. 

When  the  bee  blows  his  tiny  horn 
To  wake  the  sisterhood  of  flowers, 

He  kindles  with  his  smile  the  morn, 
To  bless  with  light  the  winged  hours. 

O  God  !  look  down  with  loving  eyes 
Upon  thy  children  slumbering  here, 

Beneath  this  tent  of  starry  skies  ; 

For  heaven  is  nigh,  and  thou  art  near. 

Geo.  W.  Bcxgat. 


172  THE    SOWER   TO   HIS    SEED. 

THE   SOWER  TO   HIS   SEED. 

Sink,  little  seed,  in  the  earth's  black  mould ; 
Sink  in  your  grave,  so  wet  and  so  cold ; 
There  must  you  lie  : 
Earth  I  throw  over  you, 
Darkness  must  cover  you, 
Light  comes  not  nigh. 

What  grief  you'd  tell,  if  words  you  could  say  ; 
What  grief  make  known  for  the  loss  of  the  day  ! 
Sadly  you'd  speak  : 
"  Lie  here  must  I  ever  ? 
Will  the  sunlight  never 

My  dark  grave  seek  ?  " 

Have  faith,  little  seed  :  soon  yet  again 
Thou'lt  rise  from  the  grave  where  thou  art  lain. 
Thou'lt  be  so  fair, 
With  thy  green  shades  so  light. 
And  thy  flowers  so  bright 
Waving  in  air. 

So  must  we  sink  in  the  earth's  black  mould,  — 
Sink  in  the  grave,  so  wet  and  cold ; 
There  must  we  stay  : 
Till  at  last  we  shall  see 
Time  change  to  eternity, 
Darkness  to  day. 

London  S.  S.  Mao 


a  child's  dee  am  of  heaven.  173 


A   CHILD'S   DREAM   OF   HEAVEN. 

Dear  mother,  I  dreamed  about  heaven  : 

I  stood  at  the  pearly  gate  ; 
I  lifted  my  little  hands  to  knock, 

But  they  did  not  let  me  wait. 

It  slowly  swung  on  its  golden  hinge ; 

And  I  saw  two  angels  stand, 
Dressed  in  the  softest,  purest  white, 

One  on  either  hand. 

They  held  two  beautiful  harps,  mother, 

Of  shining,  slitterins:  gold  : 
Which  one  played  the  sweeter 

I'm  sure  I  could  not  have  told. 

And  the  song  they  sang  was,  r  Welcome, 

Oh  welcome,  little  child  ! 
Fear  not  to  enter  heaven's  gate, 

Washed  clean  and  undefiled." 

And  so  I  fearless  walked  inside ; 

And  oh  !  it  was  lovelier  far 
Than  any  garden  I  ever  saw  : 

Each  flower  shone  like  a  star. 


174  a  child's  dream  of  heaven. 

And  the  trees  all  rustled  in  music, 

Each  leaf  sang  its  little  son<^  ; 
It  sounded  like  the  church  organ, 

Sweetly  solemn  and  strong. 

And  I  saw  a  beautiful  fountain, 
That  fell  like  rippling  light; 

Even  the  beams  of  the  moon,  mother, 
Are  not  so  dazzlingly  bright. 

Around  it  played  little  children  ; 

All  looked  happy  and  smiled  : 
I  did  not  see  an  angry  look 

On  the  face  of  any  child. 

And  thus  I  wandered  a  long,  long  time, 

No  unkind  sound  I  heard  ; 
They  were  gentle,  and  sweet  as  sweet  could  be, 

And  love  was  in  every  word. 

I  spoke  to  the  little  children, 

And  asked  if  I  might  stay, 
Hearing  the  beautiful  music, 

Watching  the  fountains  play. 

But  they  said,  "The  daylight  cometh, 
When  you  must  go  back  to  earth  ; 

But,  if  you  are  good  and  gentle, 
And  innocent  in  your  mirth  ; 


A  child's  dee  am  of  heaven.  175 

If  you  do  not  strike  your  playmates, 

Or  say  an  unkind  word, 
And  never  let  ugly  feelings 

Within  your  heart  be  stirred,  — 

Some  time  a  beautiful  angel, 

With  wings  of  snowiest  white, 
Will  bear  you  up,  in  his  powerful  arms, 

To  our  dear  Lord's  garden  of  light ; 

And  again  you  will  hear  the  music, 

And  see  the  angels  stand, 
With  golden  harps  and  golden  crowns, 

One  on  either  hand  : 

And  here  you  can  stay  for  ever, 

In  the  garden  of  our  Lord, 
And  bathe  in  the  life-giving  fountains, 

According  to  his  word." 

And  then  I  woke  right  up,  mother ; 

But  I'm  going  to  try  and  be 

All  that  the  little  children  said, 

So  God  may  send  for  me. 

Julie  Leonard 


tr^fzz^ 


NEW   ENGLAND. 


AND  of  the  forest  and  the  rock, 

Of  dark-blue  lake  and  mighty  river, 
Of  mountains  reared  aloft  to  mock 
The  storm's  career,  the  lightning's  shock, 
My  own  green  land  for  ever  ! 
Land  of  the  beautiful  and  brave, 
The  freeman's  home,  the  martyr's  grave ; 
The  nursery  of  giant  men, 
Whose  deeds  have  linked  with  every  glen 
And  every  hill  and  every  stream 
The  romance  of  some  warrior-dream  : 
Oh,  never  may  a  son  of  thine, 
"Where'er  his  wandering  steps  incline, 

[179] 


180  MY    COUNTRY,    'TIS    OF   THEE. 

Forget  the  sky  which  bent  above 
His  childhood,  like  a  dream  of  love  ; 
The  stream  beneath  the  green  hill  flowing, 
The  broad-armed  trees  above  it  growing , 
The  clear  breeze  through  the  foliage  blowing 
Or  hear,  unmoved,  the  taunt  of  scorn 
Breathed  o'er  the  brave  New-England  born ; 
Or  mark  the  stranger's  jaguar-hand 

Disturb  the  ashes  of  thy  dead,  — 
The  buried  glory  of  a  land 

Whose  soil  with  noble  blood  is  red, 
And  sanctified  in  every  part,  — 

Nor  feel  resentment,  like  a  brand, 
Unsheathing  from  his  fiery  heart ! 


J.  G.  "Whittier. 


MY   COUNTRY,   'TIS   OF   THEE. 


My  country,  'tis  of  thee, 
Sweet  land  of  liberty, 

Of  thee  I  sing  : 
Land  where  my  fathers  died, 
Land  of  the  pilgrim's  pride, 
From  every  mountain  side 

Let  freedom  ring. 

My  native  country,  thee, 
Land  of  the  noble,  free, 
Thy  name  I  love  : 


THE   LITTLE    DRUMMEB.  181 

I  lore  thy  rocks  and  rills, 
Thy  woods  and  templed  hills  , 
My  heart  with  rapture  thrills, 
Like  that  above. 

Let  music  swell  the  breeze, 
And  ring  from  all  the  trees 

Sweet  freedom's  song ! 
Let  mortal  tongues  awake  ; 
Let  all  that  breathe  partake ; 
Let  rocks  their  silence  break,  — 

The  sound  prolong  ! 

Our  fathers'  God,  to  thee,  — 

Author  of  liberty,  — 

To  thee  we  sing  : 

Long  may  our  land  be  bright 

With  freedom's  holy  light ! 

Protect  us  by  thy  might, 

Great  God,  our  King. 

S.  E.  Smith 


THE   LITTLE   DRUMMER. 
a  soldier's  story. 

'Tis  of  a  little  drummer 
The  story  I  shall  tell ; 

Of  how  he  marched  to  battle, 
And  all  that  there  befell, 


182  THE   LITTLE   DRUMMER. 

Oat  in  the  West  with  Lyon 

(For  once  the  name  was  true), 

For  whom  the  little  drummer  beat 
His  rat-tat-too. 


Our  army  rose  at  midnight, 

Ten  thousand  men  as  one, 
Each  slinging  on  his  knapsack, 

And  snatching  up  his  gun  : 
"Forward  !  "  and  off  they  started, 

As  all  good  soldiers  do, 
When  the  little  drummer  beats  for  them 

The  rat-tat-too. 


Across  a  rolling  country, 

Where  the  mist  began  to  rise ; 
Past  many  a  blackened  farmhouse, 

Till  the  sun  was  in  the  skies  : 
Then  we  met  the  rebel  pickets, 

Who  skirmished  and  withdrew, 
While  the  little  drummer  beat  and  beat 

The  rat-tat-too. 


Alomr  the  wooded  hollows 

o 

The  line  of  battle  ran  : 
Our  centre  poured  a  volley, 
And  the  fight  at  once  beiran  ; 


THE    LITTLE    DRUMMER.  183 

For  the  rebels  answered,  shouting, 

And  a  shower  of  bullets  flew  : 
But  still  the  little  drummer  beat 

His  rat-tat-too. 


He  stood  among  his  comrades 

As  they  quickly  formed  the  line  ; 
And,  when  they  raised  their  musketn, 

He  watched  the  barrels  shine. 
When  the  volley  rang,  he  started ; 

For  war  to  him  was  new  : 
But  still  the  little  drummer  beat 

His  rat-tat-too. 


It  was  a  sight  to  see  them, 

That  early  autumn  day,  — 
Our  soldiers  in  their  blue  coats, 

And  the  rebel  ranks  in  gray ; 
The  smoke  that  rolled  between  them, 

The  balls  that  whistled  through, 
And  the  little  drummer,  as  he  beat 

His  rat-tat-too. 


His  comrades  dropped  around  him,  — 
By  fives  and  tens  tljey  fell,  — - 

Some  pierced  by  minie  bullets, 
Some  torn  by  shot  and  shell : 


IS4  THE    LITTLE    DRUMMER. 

They  played  against  our  cannon, 
And  a  caisson's  splinters  flew; 

But  still  the  little  drummer  beat 
His  rat-tat-too. 


The  right,  the  left,  the  centre,  — 

The  fight  was  everywhere  : 
They  pushed  us  here,  — we  wavered  ; 

AVe  drove  and  broke  them  there. 
The  gray  backs  fixed  their  bayonets, 

And  charged  the  coats  of  blue  ; 
But  still  the  little  drummer  beat 

His  rat-tat-too. 


"  Where  is  our  little  drummer  ?  " 

His  nearest  comrades  say, 
AVhen  the  dreadful  fight  is  over, 

And  the  smoke  has  cleared  away. 
As  the  rebel  corps  was  scattering, 

He  urged  them  to  pursue  ; 
For  furiously  he  beat  and  beat 

The  rat-tat-too. 


He  stood  no  more  among  them  ; 

For  a  bullet,  as  it  sped, 
Had  glanced  and  struck  his  ankle, 

And  stretched  him  with  the  dead 


THE    LITTLE    DRUMMER.  185 

He  crawled  behind  a  cannon, 

And  pale  and  paler  grew ; 
But  still  the  little  drummer  beat 

His  rat-tat-too. 


They  bore  him  to  the  surgeon,  — 

A  busy  man  was  he  : 
"  A  drummer  boy,  —  what  ails  him  ? ' 

His  comrades  answered,  "  See  !  " 
As  they  took  him  from  the  stretcher, 

A  heavy  breath  he  drew, 
And  his  little  fingers  strove  to  beat 

The  rat-tat-too. 


The  ball  had  spent  its  fury  : 

"A  scratch,"  the  surgeon  said, 
As  he  wound  the  snowy  bandage, 

"Which  the  lint  was  staining  red. 
M I  must  leave  you  now,  old  fellow  !  " 

"  Oh  take  me  back  with  you  ! 
For  I  know  the  men  are  missing  me, 

And  the  rat-tat-too. " 


Upon  his  comrade's  shoulder 
They  lifted  him,  so  grand, 

With  his  dusty  drum  before  him, 
And  his  drumsticks  in  his  hand ; 


186  THE   LITTLE    DRUMMER. 

To  the  fiery  front  of  battle, 
That  nearer,  nearer  drew: 

Ami  evermore  he  beat  and  beat 
His  rat-tat-too. 


The  wounded,  as  he  passed  them, 

Looked  up,  and  gave  a  cheer; 
And  one,  in  dying,  blessed  him, 

Between  a  smile  and  tear. 
And  the  gray  backs,  —  they  are  flying 

Before  the  coats  of  blue, 
For  whom  the  little  drummer  beats 

His  rat-tat-too. 


When  the  west  was  red  with  sunset, 

The  last  pursuit  was  o'er, 
Brave  Lyon  rode  the  foremost, 

And  looked  the  name  he  bore  : 
And  before  him,  on  his  saddle, 

As  a  weary  child  would  do, 

Sat  the  little  drummer,  fast  asleep, 

With  his  rat-tat-too. 

R.  JI.  Stoddard 


BARBARA   FRIETCHIE.  187 


BARBARA   FRIETCHIE. 

Up  from  the  meadows,  rich  with  corn, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn, 

The  clustered  fires  of  Frederick  stand, 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 

Round  about  them  orchards  sweep, 
Apple  and  peach  tree  fruited  deep,  — 

Fair  as  the  garden  of  the  Lord 

To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  rebel  horde, 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early  fall, 
When  Lee  marched  over  the  mountain-wall,  — 

Over  the  mountains  winding  down, 
Horse  and  foot,  into  Frederick  town. 

Forty  flags,  with  their  silver  stars, 
Forty  flags,  with  their  crimson  bars, 

Flapped  in  the  morning  wind  :  the  sun 
Of  noon  looked  down,  and  saw  not  one. 


1SN  BARBARA   FRIETCIIIE. 

Up  rose  Barbara  Frietchie  then, 

Bowed  with  her  fourscore  years  and  ten,  — 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town, 

She  took  up  the  flag  the  men  hauled  down  : 

In  her  attic  window  the  staff  she  set, 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet. 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  'Jackson  riding  ahead  ; 

Under  his  slouched  hat,  left  and  right, 
lie  glanced  :  the  old  flaj^  met  his  sight. 

K  Halt  !  "  —  the  dust-brown  ranks  stood  fast. 
n  Fire  !  "  —  out  blazed  the  rifle-blast. 

It  shivered  the  window,  pane  and  sash  ; 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash. 

Quick,  as  it  fell  from  the  broken  staff, 
Dame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken  scarf; 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window-sill, 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 

M  Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  gray  old  head  ; 
But  spare  your  country's  flag,"  she  said. 


BARBARA   FEIETCHIZ.  189 

A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame, 
O'er  the  face  of  the  leader  came ; 

The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirred 
To  life  at  that  woman's  deed  and  word : 

"  Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray  head 
Dies  like  a  dog  !     March  on  ! "  he  said. 

All  day  long,  through  Frederick  street, 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet : 

All  day  long  that  free  flag  tossed 
Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host. 

Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 

On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well : 

And.  through  the  hill-gaps,  sunset-light 
Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good-ni^ht. 

Barbara  Frietehie's  work  is  o'er, 

And  the  rebel  rides  on  his  raids  no  more. 

Honor  to  her  !  and  let  a  tear 

Fall,  for  her  sake,  on  Stonewall's  bier. 

Over  Barbara  Frietchie's  grave 
Flag  of  Freedom  and  Union  wave  ! 


190  HORATIUS    THE    ROMAN. 

Peace  and  order  and  beauty  draw 
Round  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law  ; 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  down 
On  thy  stars  below  at  Frederick  town  I 

J.  G.  Whittikk. 


HORATIUS   THE   ROMAN. 

Then  outspake  brave  Horatius, 

The  captain  of  the  gate  : 
"  To  every  man  upon  this  earth 

Death  coineth,  soon  or  late ; 
And  how  can  man  die  better 

Than  facing  fearful  odds 
For  the  ashes  of  his  fathers 

And  the  temple  of  his  gods  ? 

Hew  down  the  bridge,  Sir  Consul, 

With  all  the  speed  ye  may ; 
I,  with  two  more  to  help  me, 

Will  hold  the  foe  in  play. 
In  yon  strait  path,  a  thousand 

May  well  be  stopped  by  three  : 
Now,  who  will  stand  on  either  hand, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  me?" 


LOVE    OF    COUNTRY.  191 

Then  outspake  Spurius  Lartius, — 

A  Ramnian  bold  was  he  : 
"Lo  !  I  will  stand  at  thy  right  hand, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee." 
And  outspake  strong  Herminius, — 

Of  Litian  blood  was  he  : 
"  I  will  abide  on  thy  left  side, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee." 

"Horatius,"  quoth  the  Consul, 

"As  thou  say'st,  so  let  it  be ;" 
And  straight,  against  that  great  array, 

Forth  went  the  dauntless  three. 
For  Romans,  in  Rome's  quarrels, 

Spared  neither  land  nor  gold, 

Xor  son  nor  wife,  nor  limb  nor  life, 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Macaulat. 


LOYE   OF    COUNTRY. 

Breathes  there  the  man  with  soul  so  dead, 
YYho  never  to  himself  hath  said, 

"  This  is  my  own  —  my  native  land  "  ? 
YYhose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burned, 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turned 

From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand  ? 


192  CASBIANCA. 

If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well : 
For  him  no  minstrel  raptures  swell. 
High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name, 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim, 
Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf, 
The  wretch,  concentred  all  in  self, 
Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown, 
And,  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 
To  the  vile  dust  from  whence  he  sprung, 
Unwept,  unhonored,  and  unsung. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


CASBIANCA. 

Casbianca,  son  to  the  Admiral  of  the  "  Orient,"  a  boy  about  thirteen  years  old, 
remained  at  his  post,  in  the  battle  of  the  Nile,  after  the  ship  had  taken  fire,  and  all 
the  guns  had  been  abandoned,  and  perished  in  the  explosion  of  the  vessel,  when  the 
flames  had  reached  the  powder. 

The  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck, 

Whence  all  but  he  had  fled ; 
The  flame  that  lit  the  battle's  wreck 

Shone  round  him  o'er  the  dead. 

Yet,  beautiful  and  bright  he  stood, 

As  born  to  rule  the  storm,  — 
A  creature  of  heroic  blood  ; 

A  proud,  though  childlike  form. 


CASBIAXCA.  193 

The  flames  rolled  on,  —  he  would  not  go 

Without  his  father's  word  : 
That  father,  faint  in  death  below, 

His  voice  no  longer  heard. 

He  called  aloud  :  "  Say,  father,  say, 

If  yet  my  task  is  done  !  " 
He  knew  not  that  the  chieftain  lay 

Unconscious  of  his  son. 

"  Speak,  father  !  "  once  again  he  cried, 

*  If  I  may  yet  be  gone  ; 
And  " But  the  booming  shots  replied, 

And  fast  the  flames  rolled  on. 

Upon  his  brow  he  felt  their  breath, 

And  in  his  waving  hair ; 
And  looked,  from  that  lone  post  of  death, 

In  still,  yet  brave,  despair ; 

And  shouted  but  once  more  aloud, 

"  My  father,  must  I  stay?" 
While  o'er  him  fast,  through  sail  and  shroud, 

The  wreathing  fires  made  way. 

They  wrapt  the  ship  in  splendor  wild, 

They  caught  the  flag  on  high, 

And  streamed  above  the  gallant  child 

Like  banners  in  the  sky. 
13 


LU4  news  from  giip:nt  to  aix. 

There  came  a  burst  of  thunder-sound  : 
The  boy,  —  oh  !  where  was  he? 

Ask  of  the  winds,  that  far  around 
'With  fragments  strewed  the  sea,  — 

With  mast  and  helm  and  pennon  fair, 

That  well  had  done  their  part  ! 
But  the  noblest  thing  that  perished  there 

Was  that  young,  faithful  heart. 

Mrs.  Hemans. 


HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD  NEWS 
FROM  GHENT  TO  AIX. 

I  SPRANG  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris  and  he ; 
I  galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  galloped  all  three  : 
"  Good  speed  !  "  cried  the  watch,  as  the  gate-bolts  un- 
drew ; 
"  Speed  !  "  echoed  the  wall  to  us  galloping  through  : 
Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank  to  rest, 
And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 

Not  a  word  to  each  other :  we  kept  the  great  pace, 
Neck  by  neck,   stride  by  stride,  never  changing  our 

place : 
I  turned  in  my  saddle  and  made  its  girths  tight, 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup,  and  set  the  pique  right, 


NEWS    FROM    GHENT   TO   AIX.  195 

Rebuckled  the  check-strap,  chained  slacker  the  bit, 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland  a  whit. 

'Twas  moonset  at  starting ;  but,  while  we  drew  near 
Lokeren,  the  cocks  crew,  and  twilight  dawned  clear: 
At  Boom,  a  great  yellow  star  came  out  to  see  ; 
At  Diiffeld,  'twas  morning  as  plain  as  could  be ; 
And  from  Mecheln  church-steeple  we  heard  the  half- 
chime, 
So  Joris  broke  silence  with,  "Yet  there  is  time  ! " 

At  Aerschot,  up  leaped  of  a  sudden  the  sun, 
And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black,  every  one, 
To  stare,  through  the  mist,  at  us  galloping  past; 
And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper,  Roland,  at  last, 
With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting  away 
The  haze,  as  some  bluff  river-headland  its  spray; 

And  his  low  head  and  crest, — just  one  sharp  ear  bent 

back 
For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked  out  on  his  track; 
And  one  eye's  black  intelligence,  —  ever  that  glance 
O'er  its  white  edge  at  me,  his  own  master,  askance ; 
And  the  thick,  heavy  spume-flakes,  which,  aye  and  anon, 
His  fierce  lips  shook  upwards  in  galloping  on. 


By  Hasselt,  Dirck  groaned;    and  cried  Joris,  "Stay 

spur  ! 
Your  Roos  galloped  bravely,  the  fault's  not  in  her ; 


196  m:ws   FROM    GHENT   TO   AIX. 

We'll   remember  at  Aix,"  —  for  one  heard  the  quick 

wheeze 
Of  her  chest,  Baw  the  stretched  neck,  and  staggering 

knees, 
And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the  flank, 
As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shuddered  and  sank. 

So  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 

Past  Loos  and  past  Tongres,  —  no  cloud  in  the  sky  ; 

The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  pitiless  laugh, 

'Neath  our  foot  broke  the  brittle  bright  stubble  like  chuff; 

Till,  over  by  Dalhem,  a  dome-tower  sprang  white, 

And,  "  Gallop,"  cried  Joris,  M  for  Aix  is  in  sight !  n 

"  How  they'll  greet  us  !  "  —  and,  all  in  a  moment,  his 

roan 
Rolled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead  as  a  stone ; 
And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the  whole  weight 
Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save  Aix  from  her  fate, 
With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  to  the  brim, 
And  with  circles  of  red  round  his  eye-sockets'  rim. 

Then  I  cast  my  loose  buff-coat,  each  holster  let  fall, 
Shook  cif  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt  and  all, 
Stood  up  iu  my  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his  car. 
Called  my  Roland  his  pet  name,  my  horse  without  peer, 
Clapped   my  hands,  laughed   and  sang,  —  any  noise, 

bad   or  good, — 
Till  at  Length  into  Aix  Roland  galloped  and  stood. 


JAFFAR.  197 

And  all  I  remember  is  friends  flocking  round, 

As  I  sat  with  his  head  'twixt  my  knees  on  the  ground ; 

And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Roland  of  mine, 

As  I  poured  down  his  throat  our  last  measure  of  wine, 

Which  (the  burgesses  voted,  by  common  consent) 

"Was  no  more  than  his  due  who   brought  good  news 

from  Ghent. 

Robert  Bbowxixg. 


JAFFAR. 

Jaffar,  the  Barmecide,  the  good  vizier, 

The  poor  man's  hope,  the  friend  without  a  peer,  - 

Jaffar  was  dead ;  slain  by  a  doom  unjust : 

And  guilty  Haroun,  sullen  with  mistrust 

Of  what  the  good,  and  e'en  the  bad,  might  say, 

Ordained  that  no  man  living,  from  that  day, 

Should  dare  to  speak  his  name,  on  pain  of  death. 

All  Araby  and  Persia  held  their  breath,  — 

All  but  the  brave  Mondeer.     He,  proud  to  show 
How  far  for  love  a  grateful  soul  could  go, 
And,  facing  death  for  very  scorn  and  grief 
(For  his  great  heart  wanted  a  great  relief), 
Stood  forth  in  Bagdad,  daily,  in  the  square, 
"Where  once  had  stood  a  happy  house,  and  there 
Harangued  the  tremblers  at  the  scymitar 
On  all  they  owed  to  the  divine  Jaffar. 


\{JX  JAFFAR. 

"Bring  me  this  man,"  the  caliph  cried  :  the  man 
Was  brought,  was  gazed  upon.      The  mutes  began 
To  bind  his  arms.     "  Welcome,  brave  cords  !  "  cried  he  ; 
f'  From  bonds  far  worse  Jaffar  delivered  me  ; 
From  wants,  from  shames,  from  loveless  household  fears 
Made  a  man's  eyes  friends  with  delicious  tears ; 
Restored  me,  loved  me,  put  me  on  a  par 
"With  his  great  self.     How  can  I  pay  Jaffar  ?  " 

Haroun,  who  felt  that  on  a  soul  like  this 

The  mightiest  vengeance  could  but  fall  amiss, 

Now  deigned  to  smile,  as  one  great  lord  of  fate 

Might  smile  upon  another  half  as  great. 

He  said  :  "  Let  worth  grow  frenzied  if  it  will ; 

The  caliph's  judgment  shall  be  master  still. 

Go  ;  and,  since  gifts  so  move  thee,  take  this  gem, 

The  richest  in  the  Tartar's  diadem, 

And  hold  the  giver  as  thou  deemest  fit." 

"  Gifts  !  "  cried  the  friend.     He  took  ;  and,  holding  it 
High  toward  the  heavens,  as  though  to  meet  his  star, 
Exclaimed  :  "  This,  too,  I  owe  to  thee,  Jaffar  !  " 

Leigh  Hunt 


LOYAI/ir   CONFESSED.  199 


LOYALTY    CONFIXED. 

Beat  on,  proud  billows  ;  Boreas  blow  ; 

Swell,  curled  waves,  high  as  Jove's  roof; 
Your  incivility  doth  show 

That  innocence  is  tempest  proof. 
Though  surly  Xereus  frown,  my  thoughts  are  calm 
Then  strike,  Affliction ;  for  thy  wounds  are  balm. 

That  which  the  world  miscalls  a  jail, 

A  private  closet  is  to  me ; 
Whilst  a  good  conscience  is  my  bail, 
And  innocence  my  liberty  : 
Locks,  bars,  and  solitude,  together  met, 
Make  me  no  prisoner,  but  an  anchoret. 

I,  whilst  I  wished  to  be  retired, 

Into  this  private  room  was  turned ; 
As  if  their  wisdoms  had  conspired 
The  salamander  should  be  burned  : 
Or,  like  those  sophists  that  would  drown  a  fish, 
I  am  constrained  to  suffer  what  I  wish. 

The  cynic  loves  his  poverty ; 

The  pelican  her  wilderness  ; 
And  'tis  the  Indian's  pride  to  be 

X'aked  on  frozen  Caucasus. 


200  LOYALTY   CONFINED. 

Contentment  cannot  smart:  stoics,  we  sec, 
Make  torments  easy  to  their  apathy. 

+  These  manacles  upon  my  arm, 

I,  as  my  mistress'  favors,  wear ; 
And,  for  to  keep  my  ankles  warm, 
I  have  some  iron  shackles  there. 
These  walls  are  but  my  garrison ;  this  cell , 
Which  men  call  jail,  doth  prove  my  citadel. 

I'm  in  the  cabinet  locked  up, 

Like  some  high-prized  margarite  ; 
y         Or,  like  the  Great  Mogul,  or  Pope, 

Am  cloistered  up  from  public  sight : 
Retiredness  is  a  piece  of  majesty ; 
And  thus,  proud  Sultan,  I'm  as  great  as  thee. 

Here  sin,  for  want  of  food,  must  starve, 
Where  tempting  objects  are  not  seen  ; 
And  these  strong  walls  do  only  serve 
To  keep  vice  out,  and  keep  me  in. 
Malice  of  late's  grown  charitable,  sure  : 
I'm  not  committed,  but  am  kept  secure. 

So  he  that  struck  at  Jason's  life, 

Thinking  t'  have  made  his  purpose  sure, 
By  a  malicious,  friendly  knife, 
Did  only  wound  him  to  a  cure. 
Malice,  1  see,  wants  wit  ;  for  what  is  meant 
Mischief,  ofttiinea  proves  favor  by  the  event. 


LOYALTY   CONFIXED.  201 

"When  once  my  prince  affliction  hath, 

Prosperity  doth  treason  seem  ; 
And,  to  make  smooth  so  rough  a  path, 
I  can  learn  patience  from  him  : 
Xow  not  to  suffer  shows  no  loyal  heart : 
When  kings  want  ease,  subjects  must  bear  a  part. 

What  though  I  cannot  see  my  king, 

Xeither  in  person  nor  in  coin ; 
Yet  contemplation  is  a  thing 

That  renders  what  I  have  not,  mine. 
My  king  from  me  what  adamant  can  part, 
"Whom  I  do  wear  engraven  on  my  heart  ? 

Have  vou  not  seen  the  nightingale. 

*  ©  © 

A  prisoner  like,  cooped  in  a  cage, 
How  she  doth  chant  her  wonted  tale 

In  that  her  narrow  hermitage  ? 
Even  then  her  charming  melody  doth  prove 
That  all  her  bars  are  trees,  her  cage  a  grove. 

I  am  that  bird,  whom  they  combine 

Thus  to  deprive  of  liberty  : 
But,  though  they  do  my  corps  confine, 
Yet,  maugre  hate,  my  soul  is  free  ; 
And,  though  immured,  yet  can  I  chirp,  and  sing, 
"Disgrace  to  rebels,  glory  to  mv  king  !  " 

My  soul  is  free  as  ambient  air, 

Although  my  baser  part's  immew'd  : 


202  THE    MOTHERS   OF   1862. 

Whilst  loyal  thoughts  do  still  repair 
To  accompany  my  solitude. 
Although  rebellion  do  my  body  bind, 
My  king  alone  can  captivate  my  mind. 

Sir  Roger  L'Estrange,  16G8 


THE   MOTHERS   OF   1862. 

They  call  for  "able-bodied  men." 

Now,  there's  our  Roger,  strong  and  stout ; 
He'd  beat  his  comrades  out  and  out 

In  feats  of  strength  and  skill.     What  then? 

What  then?     Why,  only  this  :  you  see 
He's  made  of  just  that  sort  of  stuff 
They  want  on  battle-fields.     Enough  ! 

What  choice  was  left  for  him  and  me? 

So,  when  he  asked  me,  y  ester  week, 
"  Your  blessing,  mother  !  "  did  I  heed 
The  great  sob  at  my  heart,  or  need 

Another  word  that  he  should  speak? 

Should  I  sit  down,  and  mope  and  croon, 
And  hug  my  selfishness,  and  cry, 
"Not  him,  my  first-born  !  "  —  no,  not  I : 

Thank  Heaven,  I  pipe  a  nobler  tune  ! 


THE    MOTHERS    OF   1862.  203 

And  yet  I  love  him  like  my  life,  — 
This  stalwart,  handsome  lad  of  mine  : 
I  warrant  me,  he'll  take  the  shine 

Off  half  who  follow  drum  and  fife. 

Xow,  God  forgive  me,  how  I  prate  ! 

Ah  !  but  the  mother  will  leap  out 

Whatever  folds  we  wrap  about 
Our  foolish  hearts,  or  soon  or  late. 

Xo  doubt  'tis  weakness,  —  mother  lip 

Extolling  its  own  flesh  and  blood  : 

A  trick  of  weakly  womanhood 
That  we  should  scourge  with  thong  and  whip, 

No  doubt ;  and  yet  I  should  not  dare 
Lay  an  ungloved,  cheap  offering 
Upon  my  country's  shrine,  nor  bring 

Aught  but  was  noble,  sweet,  and  fair. 

And  so  I  bring  my  boy ;  too  glad 

That  he  is  worthy,  and  that  I, 

Who  bore  him  once  in  agony, 
Such  glorious  recompense  have  had. 

Take  him,  my  country  !  he  is  true 

And  brave  and  good, — his  deeds  shall  tell 
More  than  my  foolish  words  :  'tis  well. 

God's  love  be  with  the  lad  and  you,  — 


it   1  THE   MOTHEBfl   OF  1862. 

God's  love  and  care  ;  and  when  lie  comes 
I  Kick  from  the  war,  and  through  the  street 
The  crazy  people  flock  to  meet 

My  hero,  with  great  shouts,  and  drums, 

And  silver  trumpets  braying  loud, 

And  silken  banners  starry  gay, 

'Twill  be  to  me  no  prouder  day 
Than  this  ;  nay,  nay,  nor  half  so  proud. 

And  if,  —  God  help  me,  — if,  instead, 
They  flash  this  word  from  some  red  field  : 
"His  brave,  sweet  soul,  that  would  not  yield, 

Leaped  upward,  and  they  wrote  him  ?  dead,' "  — 

I'll  turn  my  white  face  to  the  wall, 
And  bear  my  grief  as  best  I  may 
For  Roger's  sake,  and  only  say, 

"  He  knoweth  best  who  knoweth  all." 

And  when  the  neighbors  come  to  weep, 
Saving,  "  Alas  the  bitter  blow  !  " 
I'll  answer,  Nay,  dear  friends,  not  so  : 

Better  my  Roger's  hero-sleep, 

And  nobler  far  such  lot  than  his 

Who  dare  not  strike,  with  heart  and  hand, 
For  Freedom  and  dear  Father-land, 

Where  death's  dark  missiles  crash  and  whiz. 


205 


And  Roger's  mother  has  no  tear 

So  bitter  as  her  tears  would  be, 

If,  from  the  battles  of  the  Free, 
Her  son  shrank  back  with  craven  fear. 

Caroline  A.  Mason. 


SOMEBODY'S   DARLING. 

Into  a  ward  of  the  whitewashed  halls, 

Where  the  dead  and  dying  lay, 
Wounded  by  bayonets,  shells,  and  balls, 

Somebody's  darling  was  borne,  one  day,  — 
Somebody's  darling,  so  young  and  so  brave, 

Wearing  yet,  on  his  pale,  sweet  face, 
Soon  to  be  hid  by  the  dust  of  the  grave, 

The  lingering  light  of  his  boyhood's  face. 

Matted  and  damp  are  the  curls  of  gold, 

Kissing  the  snow  of  that  fair  voung  brow : 
Pale  are  the  lips  of  a  delicate  mould,  — 

Somebody's  darling  is  dying  now. 
Back  from  his  beautiful  blue-veined  brow 

Brush  all  the  wandering  waves  of  gold  : 
Cross  his  hands  on  his  bosom  now,  — 

Somebody's  darling  is  still  and  cold. 


206  somebody's  dabling. 

Kiss  liim  once,  for  somebody's  sake  ; 

.Murmur  a  prayer  soft  and  low  ; 
One  bright  curl  from  its  fair  mate  take,  — 

They  were  somebody's  pride,  you  know. 
Somebody's  hand  hath  rested  there,  — 

Was  it  a  mother's,  soft  and  white? 
And  have  the  lips  of  a  sister  fair 

Been  baptized  in  their  waves  of  light  ? 

God  knows  best !     He  was  somebody's  love 

Somebody's  heart  enshrined  him  there  ; 
Somebody  wafted  his  name  above, 

Night  and  morn,  on  the  wings  of  prayer  : 
Somebody  Avept  when  he  marched  away, 

Looking  so  handsome,  brave,  and  grand ; 
Somebody's  kiss  on  his  forehead  lay  ; 

Somebody  clung  to  his  parting  hand. 

Somebody's  waiting  and  watching  for  him,  — 

Yearning  to  hold  him  again  to  her  heart ; 
And  there  he  lies,  with  his  blue  eyes  dim, 

And  the  smiling,  childlike  lips  apart. 
Tenderly  bury  the  fair  young  dead, 

Pausing  to  drop  in  his  grave  a  tear  ; 
Carve  on  the  wooden  slab  at  his  head, 

"Somebody's  darling  slumbers  here." 


THE   FATHER-LAXD.  207 


THE   FATHER-LAND 

Where  is  the  true  man's  father-land? 

Is  it  where  he  by  chance  is  born  ? 

Doth  not  the  yearning  spirit  scorn 
In  such  scant  borders  to  be  spanned? 
Oh,  yes  !  his  father-land  must  be, 
As  the  blue  heaven,  wide  and  free  ! 

Is  it  alone  where  freedom  is, 

"Where  God  is  God,  and  man  is  man? 

Doth  he  not  claim  a  broader  span 
For  the  soul's  love  of  home  than  this  ? 
Oh,  yes  !  his  father-land  must  be, 
As  the  blue  heaven,  wide  and  free  ! 

"Where'er  a  human  heart  doth  wear 

Joy's  myrtle-wreath  or  sorrow's  gyves  ; 
Where'er  a  human  spirit  strives 

After  a  life  more  true  and  fair,  — 

There  is  the  true  man's  birthplace  grand  ; 

His  is  a  world-wide  father-land  ! 

Where'er  a  single  slave  doth  pine, 

Where'er  one  man  may  help  another,  — 
Thank  God  for  such  a  birthright,  brother  ! 

That  spot  of  earth  is  thine  and  mine  : 

There  is  the  true  man's  birthplace  grand ; 

His  is  a  world-wide  father-land  ! 

J.  R.  Lowell 


ON  THE   LORD'S   SIDE. 


OD'S  trumpet  wakes  the  slumbering  world 
Now,  each  man  to  his  post ! 
The  red-cross  banner  is  unfurled,  — 
Who  joins  the  glorious  host? 


He  who,  in  fealty  to  the  Truth, 

And  counting  all  the  cost, 
Doth  consecrate  his  generous  youth,  — 

He  joins  the  noble  host. 


He  who,  no  anger  on  his  tongue, 

Nor  any  idle  boast, 
Bears  steadfast  witness  against  wrong,  — 

He  joins  the  sacred  host. 

[2H] 


212  THE   SO  WEES. 

He  who,  with  calm,  undaunted  will, 
Ne'er  counts  the  battle  lost; 

But,  though  defeated,  battles  still, — 
He  joins  the  faithful  host. 

He  who  is  ready  for  the  cross, 
The  cause  despised  loves  most, 

And  shuns  not  pain  or  shame  or  loss, 
He  joins  the  martyr  host. 


THE     SOWERS. 

They  are  sowing  their  seed  by  the  dawnlight  fair ; 
They  are  sowing  their  seed  in  the  noonday's  glare  ; 
They  are  sowing  their  seed  in  the  soft  twilight ; 
They  are  sowing  their  seed  in  the  solemn  night  : 

What  shall  the  harvest  be? 

They  are  sowing  the  seed  of  pleasant  thought; 
In  the  spring's  green  light  they  have  blithely  wrought  ; 
They  have  brought  their  fancies  from  wood  and  dell, 
Where  the  mosses  creep  and  the  flower-buds  swell : 
Rare  shall  the  harvesl  be. 

They  are  sowing  their  seed  of  word  and  deed. 
Which  the  cold  know  not,  nor  the  careless  heed  ; 


THE    SOWEKS.  213 

Of  the  gentle  word,  and  the  kindly  deed, 
That  have  blessed  the  heart  in  its  sorest  need : 

Sweet  will  the  harvest  be. 

And  some  are  sowing  the  seed  of  pain, 
Of  late  remorse,  and  a  maddened  brain  ; 
And  the  stars  shall  fail,  and  the  sun  shall  wane, 
Ere  they  root  the  weeds  from  the  soil  again  : 

Dark  will  the  harvest  be. 

And  some  are  standing  with  idle  hand, 
Yet  they  scatter  seed  on  their  native  land ; 
And  some  are  sowing  the  seed  of  care, 
Which  their  soil  hath  borne,  and  still  must  bear  : 

Sad  will  the  harvest  be. 

They  are  sowing  their  seed  of  noble  deed, 
With  a  sleepless  watch  and  an  earnest  heed ; 
With  a  careless  hand  o'er  the  earth  they  sow, 
And  the  fields  are  whitening  where'er  they  go  : 

Rich  will  the  harvest  be. 

Sown  in  darkness  or  sown  in  light, 
Sown  in  weakness  or  sown  in  might, 
Sown  in  meekness  or  sown  in  wrath, 
In  the  broad  world-field  or  the  shadowy  path,  — 

Sure  will  the  harvest  be. 


214  "paddle  your  own  canoe. 


EARTHLY   AND   HEAVENLY   INTEREST. 

Ben  Adam  had  a  golden  coin,  one  day, 

Which  he  put  at  interest  with  a  Jew ; 
Year  alter  year,  awaiting  him,  it  lay, 

Until  the  doubled  coin  two  pieces  grew, 
And  these  two,  four,  —  so  on,  till  people  said, 

"  How  rich  Ben  Adam  is  !  "  and  bowed  the  servile 
head. 

Ben  Selim  had  a  golden  coin,  that  day, 

Which  to  a  stranger,  asking  alms,  he  gave, 

Who  went  rejoicing  on  his  unknown  way. 
Ben  Selim  died,  too  poor  to  own  a  grave  ; 

But,  when  his  soul  reached  heaven,  angels  with  pride 
Showed  him  the  wealth  to  which  his  coin  had  multi- 
plied. 


"PADDLE   YOUR   OWN   CANOE." 

Up  this  world,  and  down  this  world, 
And  over  this  world  and  through, 
Though  drifted  about, 

And  tossed  without, 
Why,  "paddle  your  own  canoe." 


"paddle  your  own  canoe."  215 

What  though  the  sky  is  heavy  with  clouds, 
Or  shining  a  field  of  blue ; 

If  the  bleak  wind  blows, 

Or  the  sunshine  glows, 
Still  "paddle  your  own  canoe." 

What  if  breakers  rise  up  ahead, 
With  dark  waves  rushing  through, 

Move  steadily  by 

With  a  steadfast  eye, 
And  "  paddle  your  own  canoe." 

If  a  hurricane  rise  in  the  midnight  skies, 
And  the  stars  are  lost  to  view, 

Glide  safely  along 

With  a  smile  and  a  song, 
And  "  paddle  your  own  canoe." 

Up  this  world,  and  down  this  world, 
And  over  this  world  and  through, 

Though  weary  and  worn, 

Bereft,  and  forlorn, 
Still  "paddle  your  own  canoe." 

Never  give  up  when  trials  come, 
Never  grow  sad  and  blue, 

Never  sit  down 

WTith  a  tear  and  a  frown, 
But  "  paddle  your  own  canoe." 


216  COURAGE,    BOY,    COURAGE. 

There  are  daisies  springing  along  the  shores, 
Blooming  and  sweet  for  you  ; 

There  are  rose-hued  dyes 

In  the  autumn  skies  : 
Then  "  paddle  your  own  canoe." 


An  mi:  E.  Howe. 


COURAGE,   BOY,  COURAGE! 

Yes,  courage,  boy,  courage  !  and  press  on  thy  way; 
There  is  nothing  to  harm  thee,  nothing  to  fear  : 
Do  all  which  Truth  bids  thee,  and  do  it  to-day  ; 
Hold  on  to  thy  purpose,  do  right,  persevere  ! 

Though  waves  of  temptation  in  anger  may  roll, 

And  storm-cloud  on  storm-cloud  hang  dark  in  the  sky, 

Still  courage,   boy,  courage !    there's   strength   in   thy 

soul  ; 
Believing  and  doing  bring  help  from  on  high. 

When  breakers  are  round   thee,    mid  wreck   and   mid 

roar, 
Eye  closer  thy  compass,  be  fervent  in  prayer; 
The  Saviour  Almighty  can  help  thee  ashore, 
And  songs  of  salvation  be  sun--  by  thee  there  ! 

Lei  joy  light  thy  cheek  then,  and  hope  gild  thy  brows 
Ne'er  parley  with  wrong,  nor  ill  stay  to  borrow; 


LITE'S   MIS8I01I.  ^17 

Let  thy  object  be  Truth,  and  thy  watchword  be  Xow  I 
Make  sure  of  to-day,  and  trust  God  for  to-morrow.. 

By  deeds  of  the  mighty,  who  struggled  and  bled, 
Be  incited  to  action,  and  manfully  fight : 
Good  is  worth  doing,  boy  !  and,  living  or  dead, 
That  £Ood  shall  reward  thee  with  honor  and  mi^ht. 

Then  courage,  boy,  courage  !  there's  light  in  the  sky  : 

Be  humble,  be  active,  be  honest,  be  true ; 

And,  though  hosts  may  confront,  and  though  hell  lift 

its  cry, 
"I've  conquered  ! "  at  last  shall  be  shouted  by  you* 

Rev.  T.  T.  Waterman. 


LIFE'S    MISSION. 

Go  forth  to  life,  O  child  of  earth  ! 
Still  mindful  of  thy  heavenly  birth  : 
Thou  art  not  here  for  ease  or  sin, 
But  manhood's  noble  crown  to  win. 

Though  passion's  fires  are  in  thy  soul, 
Thy  spirit  can  their  flames  control ; 
Though  tempters  strong  beset  thy  way, 
Thy  spirit  is  more  strong  than  they. 


218 


Go  on  from  innocence  of  youth 
To  manly  pureness,  manly  truth  : 
God's  angels  still  are  near  to  save, 
And  God  himself  doth  help  the  brave. 

Then  forth  to  life,  O  child  of  earth  ! 
Be  worthy  of  thy  heavenly  birth  ! 
For  noble  service  thou  art  here ; 
Thy  brothers  help,  thy  God  revere  ! 

Rev.  S.  Longfellow 


THE   LITTLE   HEARTS-EASE. 

A  gardener  went,  one  sunshiny  day, 

To  look  at  his  gay  parterre ; 
To  admire  his  flowers  in  their  handsome  array, 

As  with  fragrance  they  scented  the  air ; 
And  to  walk  in  the  shade  of  his  stately  trees, 
That  were  waving  their  boughs  in  the  morning  breeze. 

But,  alas  !  alas  !  when  he  reached  his  ground, 
"What  a  scene  of  disorder  and  sadness  he  found  ! 

Each  beautiful  flower  was  drooping  its  head, 
And  rapidly  fading  away; 

And  unnumbered  fair  leaves  on  the  pathway  were  shed, 
From  the  tree?  in  their  early  decay  : 


THE    LITTLE    HEARTS-EASE.  219 

And  our  gardener  hastily  sought  for  the  reason 

Why  this  should  have  happened  in  spring's  lovely  season. 

So  he  walked  up  first  to  his  favorite  Oak, 

All  withering,  and  asked  it,  "  Why  ?  " 
And  the  noble  old  tree  thus  mournfully  spoke : 

"  I  thought  I  as  well  might  die ; 
For  I  bear  no  fruit,  nor  with  flowerets  bloom, 
And  my  awkward  branches  want  so  much  room,  — 

I'm  a  clumsy  and  useless  thing  : 
If  I  were  a  rose-tree,  like  that  within  reach, 
Or  if  I  had  fruit  like  the  soft,  round  peach, 

Some  profit  I  then  might  bring ; 
But,  as  I  have  nothing  but  leaves  to  give, 
What  motive  have  I  for  wishing  to  live  ?  " 

"Well,  Lady  Rose,  with  your  sweet,  open  face, 

And  cheeks  of  a  delicate  hue, 
I  had  hoped  that  for  months   you   my  garden  would 
grace, — 

Tell  me,  what  is  the  matter  with  you?" 
And  the  pretty  Rose  said,  as  she  shook  on  her  stem, 
"  Just  look  at  your  oak-trees ;  if  I  were  like  them, 

How  happy  and  proud  I  should  be  ! 
I  should  rear  my  tall  head  in  your  well-cultured  ground, 
An  ornament  there,  which  for  many  miles  round 

Admiring  people  might  see  ; 
But  a  poor  little  flower,  unproductive  as  I, 
What  use  is  it  to  you?  —  I'd  much  rather  die." 


220  THE    LITTLE    HEART'S-EASE. 

"  0  beautiful  Vine,  which  I  trained  with  such  care 

To  climb  up  the  sheltering  wall ! 
Say.  why  arc  you  trailing  bo  dolefully  there? 

And  what  has  occasioned  your  fall?" 
And  the  Vine  faintly  murmured  :  "  As  I  had  not  strength 
My  own  weight  to  sustain,  I  determined  at  length 

Not  to  trouble  my  friends  any  longer: 
Could  I  yield  a  shade  like  the  wide-spreading  trees, 
Or  if,  like  the  flowers,  I  had  gifts  that  would  please, 

Why,  then,  I  might  try  to  grow  stronger; 
But  a  poor  feeble  creature,  requiring  a  stay, 
Had  better  make  haste  to  get  out  of  the  way." 

Quite  saddened  with  looks  and  with  words  of  gloom, 

The  gardener  with  joy  espied 
A  dear  little  Heart's-ease,  in  full,  rich  bloom, 

As  fresh  as  a  fair  youn^  bride  : 
It  turned  up  its  bright,  little  face  toward  him, 
With  a  smile  which  none  of  its  neighbors  would  dim  ; 

And  he  said,  with  surprise,  "How  is  it 
That  you  so  contented  and  healthful  appear? 
And  that  yours  is  the  only  countenance  here 

That  welcomes  me  in  my  visit?" 
And  the  Heart's-ease  replied,  in  a  quick,  cheerful  tone, 

"Dear  master,  I  felt  that  I  was  not  my  own. 
And  it  seemed  to  my  simple  perception  clear, 

That  you  certainly  wanted  me  : 
For  you  would  have  planted  an  acorn  here, 

Had  you  wished  lor  a  Btately  treej 


221 


Or  had  you  desired  sweet  grapes  to  find. 

A  vine-plant  would  in  my  place  have  twined ; 

And  therefore  my  obvious  duty 
Was  to  strive  and  grow  with  untiring  zest, 
Since  the  hearty  endeavor  to  do  one's  best 

Is  the  truest  worth  and  beauty  ; 
And  I  saw  that  the  work  which  you  gave  me  to  do 
Was  to  grow  up  a  fine  little  Heart's-ease  for  you." 

Dear  reader  !  let  this  simple  Heart's-ease  teach 

The  moral  which  I  wish  to  impart  : 
Sigh  not  for  stations  placed  beyond  thy  reach, 

But  strive  to  serve  thy  Maker. where  thou  art : 
The  gardener  soweth  only  tiny  seeds 

Where  he  desires  to  raise  but  simple  flowers  ; 
If  God  required  from  thee  an  angel's  deeds, 

He  would  have  given  thee  an  angel's  powers  ; 
But  all  he  asks  from  each  of  us  while  here, 

Is.  that  with  calm  contentment  we  should  rest 
In  our  appointed  and  appropriate  sphere. 

And  there,  with  loving  spirit,  do  our  best. 


222  the  lady's  dream. 


THE   LADY'S   DREAM. 

The  lady  lay  in  her  bod, 

Her  couch  so  warm  and  soft : 
But  her  sleep  was  restless  and  broken  still ; 

For,  turning  often  and  oft 
From  side  to  side,  she  muttered  and  moaned, 

And  tossed  her  arms  aloft. 

At  last  she  started  up, 

And  gazed  on  the  vacant  air 
With  a  look  of  awe,  as  if  she  saw 

Some  dreadful  phantom  there  ; 
And  then  in  the  pillows  she  buried  her  face 

From  visions  ill  to  bear. 

The  very  curtain  shook, 

Her  terror  was  so  extreme  ; 
And  the  light  that  fell  on  the  broidered  quilt, 

Kept  a  tremulous  gleam  ; 
And  her  voice  was  hollow,  and  shook  as  she  cried, 

M  Oh  me  !   that  awful  dream  ! 

M  That  weary,  weary  walk 

In  the  churchyard's  dismal  ground, 
And  those  horrible  things  with  shady  wings, 

That  came  and  flitted  round: 
Death,  death,  and  nothing  but  death, 

In  every  Bight  and  sound  ! 


the  lady's  dream.  223 

And,  oh  !  those  maidens  young, 

Who  wrought  in  that  dreary  room, 
With  figures  drooping,  as  spectres  thin, 

And  cheeks  without  a  bloom  ; 
And  the  voice  that  cried,  '  For  the  pomp  of  pride, 

We  haste  to  an  early  tomb  ! 


'For  the  pomp  and  pleasure  of  pride, 

We  toil  like  Afric  slaves, 
And  only  to  earn  a  home  at  last, 

Where  yonder  cypress  waves  ; ' 
And  then  they  pointed  —  I  never  saw 

A  ground  so  full  of  graves. 


And  still  the  coffins  came 

With  their  sorrowful  trains  and  slow ; 
Coffin  after  coffin  still, 

A  sad  and  sickening  show  ; 
From  grief  exempt,  I  never  had  dreamt 

Of  such  a  world  of  woe  ! 


Of  the  hearts  that  daily  break, 
Of  the  tears  that  hourly  fall, 

Of  the  many,  many  troubles  of  life 
That  grieve  this  earthly  ball,  — 

Disease  and  hunger,  and  pain  and  want ; 
But  now  I  dreamt  of  them  all ! 


2l;4  THE  lady's  DREAM. 

For  the  blind  and  the  cripple  were  there, 
And  the  babe  that  pined  for  bread, 

And  the  houseless  man,  and  the  widow  poor 
Who  begged  —  to  bury  the  dead; 

The  naked,  alas  !  that  I  might  have  clad, 
The  famished  I  might  have  fed ! 


The  sorrow  I  might  have  soothed, 

And  the  unregarded  tears  ; 
For  many  a  thronging  shape  was  there, 

From  long-forgotten  years  ; 
Ay,  even  the  poor  rejected  Moor, 

Who  raised  my  childish  fears  ! 

Each  pleading  look,  that  long  ago 
I  scanned  with  a  heedless  eye, 

Each  face  was  gazing  as  plainly  there 
As  when  I  pass'd  it  by  : 

Woe,  woe  for  me  if  the  past  should  be 
Thus  present  when  I  die  ! 

No  need  of  sulphureous  lake, 

No  need  of  fiery  coal, 
But  only  that  crowd  of  human  kind 

Who  wanted  pity  and  dole 
In  everlasting  retrospect 

Will  wring  my  sinful  soul ! 


the  lady's  dream.  225 

Alas  !  I  have  walked  through  life 

Too  heedless  where  I  trod ; 
Nay,  helping  to  trample  my  fellow-worm, 

And  fill  the  burial  sod, — 
Forgetting  that  even  the  sparrow  falls 

Xot  unremarked  of  God  ! 


I  drank  the  richest  draughts, 

And  ate  whatever  is  good  ; 
Fish  and  flesh  and  fowl  and  fruit 

Supplied  my  hungry  mood  : 
But  I  never  remembered  the  wretched  ones 

That  starve  for  want  of  food  ! 


I  dressed  as  the  noble  dress, 

In  cloth  of  silver  and  gold, 
\Vith  silk  and  satin  and  costly  furs 

In  many  an  ample  fold ; 
But  I  never  remembered  the  naked  limbs 

That  froze  with  winter's  cold. 


The  wounds  I  might  have  healed  ! 

The  human  sorrow  and  smart  ! 
And  yet  it  never  was  in  my  soul 

To  play  so  ill  a  part. 
But  evil  is  wrought  by  want  of  thought, 

As  well  as  want  of  heart." 
15 


226  GOLD. 

She  clasped  her  fervent  hands, 
And  the  tears  be^an  to  stream  : 

Large  and  bitter  and  fast  they  fell, 
Remorse  was  so  extreme ; 

And  yet,  oh  yet,  that  many  a  dame 
Would  dream  the  Lady's  Dream  ! 

Thomas  Hood 


GOLD. 

Gold  !  gold  !  gold  !  gold  ! 

Bright  and  yellow,  hard  and  cold, 

Molten,  graven,  hammered  and  rolled  ; 

Heavy  to  get,  and  light  to  hold ; 

Hoarded,  bartered,  bought,  and  sold, 

Stolen,  borrowed,  squandered,  doled; 

Spurned  by  the  young,  but  hugged  by  the  old 

To  the  very  verge  of  the  churchyard  mould ; 

Price  of  many  a  crime  untold. 

Gold!  gold!  gold!  gold! 

Good  or  bad  a  thousand-fold  ! 

How  widely  its  agencies  vary,  — 

To  save,  to  ruin,  to  curse,  to  bless, 

As  even  its  minted  coins  express, 

Now  stamped  witli  the  image  of  good  Queen  Bess, 

And  now  of  a  Bloody  Mary. 

Thomas  Hood. 


THE    CRUSE    THAT    FATEETH   XOT.  227 


THE    CRUSE   THAT   FAILETH   SOT. 

Is  thy  cruse  of  comfort  wasting?  rise,  and  share  it  with 

another, 
And,  through  all  the  years  of  famine,  it  shall  serve  thee 

and  thy  brother  ; 
Love  divine  will  fill  thy  storehouse,  or  thy  handful  still 

renew ; 
Scanty  fare  for  one  will  often  make  a  royal  feast  for 

two. 

For  the  heart  grows  rich  in  giving ;   all  its  wealth  is 

living  grain  ; 
Seeds,  which  mildew  in  the  garden,  scattered,  fill  with 

gold  the  plain. 
Is  thy  burden  hard  and  heavy?     Do    thy   steps   drag 

wearily  ? 
Help  to  bear  thy  brother's  burden  :   God  will  bear  both 

it  and  thee. 

Xumb  and  weary  on  the  mountains,  wouldst  thou  sleep 

amidst  the  snow  ? 
Chafe  that  frozen  form  beside  thee,  and  together  both 

shall  glow. 
Art  thou  stricken  in  life's  battle  ?  many  wounded  round 

thee  moan ; 
Lavish  on  their  wounds  thy  balsams,   and   that  balm 

shall  heal  thine  own. 


228  LITTLE    AND    GREAT. 

Is   the  heart   a  well  left  empty?    none   but    God   ita 

void  can  fill ; 
Nothing  but  a  ceaseless  fountain  can  its  ceaseless  lonjr- 

ing  still. 
Is  the  heart  a  living  power?  Self-intwined,  its  strength 

sinks  low  ; 
It  can  only  live  in   loving,   and   by  serving  love  will 

grow. 


LITTLE    AND   GREAT. 

A  traveller  through  a  dusty  road 

Strewed  acorns  on  the  lea  ; 
And  one  took  root,  and  sprouted  up, 

And  grew  into  a  tree. 
Love  sought  its  shade  at  evening-time, 

To  breathe  its  early  vows ; 
And  Age  was  pleased,  in  heats  of  noon, 

To  bask  beneath  its  boughs  : 
The  dormouse  loved  its  dangling  twigs, 

The  birds  sweet  music  bore ; 
It  stood  a  glory  in  its  place, 

A  blessing  evermore. 

A  little  spring  had  lost  its  way 

Amid  the  grass  and  fern  ; 
A  passing  stranger  scooped  a  well, 

"Where  weary  men  might  turn. 


LITTLE    AMD    GREAT.  229 

He  walled  it  in,  and  hung  with  care 

A  ladle  at  the  brink  : 
He  thought  not  of  the  deed  he  did, 

But  judged  that  Toil  might  drink. 
He  passed  again,  —  and  lo  !  the  well, 

By  summers  never  dried, 
Had  cooled  ten  thousand  parching  tongues, 

And  saved  a  life  beside. 

A  dreamer  dropped  a  random  thought : 

'Twas  old,  —  and  yet  'twas  new  : 
A  simple  fancy  of  the  brain, 

But  strong  in  being1  true. 
It  shone  upon  a  genial  mind, 

And,  lo  !  its  light  became 
A  lamp  of  life,  a  beacon  ray, 

A  monitory  flame. 
The  thought  was  small,  — its  issue  great : 

A  watch-fire  on  the  hill, 
It  shed  its  radiance  far  adown, 

And  cheers  the  valley  still. 

A  nameless  man,  amid  a  crowd 

That  thronged  the  daily  mart, 
Let  fall  a  word  of  hope  and  love, 

Unstudied,  from  the  heart. 
A  whisper  on  the  tumult  thrown, 

A  transitory  breath, 
It  raised  a  brother  from  the  dust, 

It  saved  a  soul  from  death. 


230  now. 

O  germ  !  O  fount !  O  word  of  love  ! 

O  thought  at  random  cast ! 
Ye  were  but  little  at  the  first, 

But  mighty  at  the  last ! 


Charles  Mackay. 


NOW. 

"  To-morrow,  not  to-day,  I'll  do  it !  " 
'Tis  thus  the  idle  learn  to  rue  it ;  — 

"  To-morrow  I  will  strive  anew  ! 
To-morrow,  no  more  dissipation  ! 
To-morrow,  serious  application  ! 

To-morrow,  this  and  that  I'll  do." 

And  wherefore  not  to-day?     To-morrow 
"Will  also  be  for  thee  too  narrow  : 

To  every  day  its  task  assign  ! 
"What's  done,  we  know  is  done  for  ever ; 
But  what  to-morrow  granteth,  never 

Can  be  foreseen  by  wit  of  thine. 

On  !  on  !  or  thou  wilt  be  retreating  ; 
For  flesh  Lb  weak,  and  time  La  fleeting: 

Advance,  or  thou  wilt  backward  go  ! 
What  we  have  now  is  in  our  power, — 

The  present  good,  the  present  hour: 
The  future,  who  can  claim  or  know'.- 


BY-AXD-BYE.  231 

Each  day,  in  base  inaction  fleeing, 
Is,  in  the  volume  of  thy  being, 

A  page  unwritten,  blank  and  void : 
Oh  !  write  on  its  unsullied  pages 
Deeds  to  be  read  bv  coming  ages  : 

Be  every  day  alike  employed  ! 

Saegext's  Stakdabd  Speaker 


BY-AXD-BYE. 

"  By  the  street  of '  Bye-and-Bye,:  one  arrires  at  the  house  of  ;  HefcrJ  " 

Old  Peovesb 

Oh,  shun  the  spot,  my  youthful  friends,  I  urge  you  to 

beware  ! 
Beguiling  is  the  pleasant  way,  and  softly  breathes  the 

air : 
Yet  none  have  ever  passed  to  scenes  ennobling,  great 

and  high, 
"Who  once  began  to  linger  in  the  street  of  By-and-Bye. 

How  varied  are  the  images  arising  to  mv  sight, 

Of  those  who  wished  to  shun  the  wrong,  who   loved 

and  prized  the  right  ! 
Yet  from  the  silken  bonds  of  sloth  they  vainly  strove 

to  fly, 
>\Tiich  held  them  gently  prisoned  in  the  street  of  By- 

and-Bve. 


232  BY-AND-BYE. 

A  youth  aspired  to  climb  the  height  of  Learning's  lofty 

hill: 
What  dimmed  his  bright  intelligence?  —  what  quelled 

his  earnest  will  ? 
Why  did  the  object  of  his  quest  still  mock  his  wistful  eye  ? 
Too  long,  alas  !  he  tarried  in  the  street  of  By-and-Bye. 

"My  projects  thrive,"  the  merchant  said  :  "when  doub- 
led is  my  store, 

How  freely  shall  my  ready  gold  be  showered  among  the 
poor  ! " 

Vast  grew  his  wealth,  yet  strove  he  not  the  mourner's 
tear  to  dry ; 

He  never  journeyed  onward  from  the  street  of  By-and- 
Bye! 


"  Forgive  thy  erring  brother,  he  has  wept  and  suffered 

long ! " 
I  said  to  one  who  answered,  "  He  hath  done  me  griev- 


Yet  will  I  seek  my  brother,  and  forgive  him,  ere  I  die," 
Alas  !  Death  shortly  found  him  in  the  street  of  By-and- 
Bye  ! 

The  wearied  worldling  muses  upon  lost  and  wasted  days, 
Resolved  to  turn  hereafter  from  the  error  of  his  ways; 
To   lift   his    grovelling    thoughts   from    earth,    and    fix 

them  on  the  sky : 
Why  does  he  linger  fondly  in  the  street  of  By-and-Bye  ? 


A   MOMENT   TOO   LATE.  233 

Then  shun  the   spot,  my  youthful  friends ;    work   on 

■while  yet  you  may  ; 
Let  not  old  age  o'ertake  you,  as  you  slothfully  delay, 
Lest  you  should  gaze  around  you,  and  discover,  with  a 

sigh, 

You  have  reached  the  house  of  "  Never,"  by  the  street 

of  By-and-Bye  ! 

Mrs.  Abdy. 


A   MOMENT  TOO   LATE. 

A  moment  too  late,  my  beautiful  bird, — 

A  moment  too  late  are  you  now ; 
The  wind  has  your  soft,  downy  nest  disturbed,  — 

The  nest  that  you  hung  on  the  bough. 
A  moment  too  late  :  that  string  in  your  bill 

Would  have  fastened  it  firmly  and  strong ; 
But  see,  there  it  goes,  rolling  over  the  hill ! 

Oh  !  you  stayed  a  moment  too  long. 

A  moment  too  late,  too  late,  busy  bee, 

The  honey  has  dropped  from  the  flower ; 
Xo  use  to  creep  under  the  petals  to  see,  — 

It  stood  ready  to  drop  for  an  hour. 
A  moment  too  late  :  had  you  sped  on  your  wing, 

The  honey  would  not  have  been  gone ; 
But  see  what  a  very,  a  very  sad  thing 

'Tis  to  stay  a  moment  too  long. 

Youth's  Companion. 


2.">4  TOUCH   NOT. LET   IT    PASS, 


TOUCH    NOT. 

Touch  not  the  tempting  cup,  my  boy, 
Though  urged  by  friend  or  i'oe; 

Dare,  when  the  tempter  urges  must, 

Dare  nobly  say,  No  —  no  ! 
The  joyous  angel  from  on  high 
Shall  tell  your  soul  the  reason  why. 

Touch  not  the  tempting  cup,  my  boy, 
In  righteousness  be  brave ; 

Take  not  the  first,  a  single  step, 
Toward  a  drunkard's  grave  : 

The  widow's  groan,  the  orphan's  sigh, 

Shall  tell  your  soul  the  reason  why. 


LET    IT    PASS. 

Be  not  swift  to  take  offence ; 

Let  it  pass  ! 
Anger  is  a  foe  to  sense ; 

Let  it  pa—  ! 
Brood  not  darkly  o'er  a  wrong 
Which  will  disappear  ere  long: 
Bather  sing  this  cheery  song, — • 

Let  it  pass  ! 

Let  it  pass  I 


LET    IT    PASS.  235 

Strife  corrodes  the  purest  mind ; 

Let  it  pass  ! 
As  the  unregarded  wind, 

Let  it  pass  ! 
Any  vulgar  souls  that  live 
May  condemn  without  reprieve  ; 
Tis  the  noble  who  forgive  : 

Let  it  pass  ! 

Let  it  pass  ! 

Echo  not  an  angry  word ; 

Let  it  pass  ! 
Think  how  often  you  have  erred  ; 

Let  it  pass  ! 
Since  our  joys  must  pass  away, 
Like  the  dew-drops  on  the  spray, 
TTherefore  should  our  sorrows  stay  ? 

Let  them  pass  ! 

Let  them  pass  ! 

If  for  good  you've  taken  ill, 

Let  it  pass  ! 
Oh  !  be  kind  and  gentle  still ; 

Let  it  pass  ! 
Time  at  last  makes  all  things  straight ; 
Let  us  not  resent,  but  wait, 
And  our  triumph  shall  be  great : 

Let  it  pass  ! 

Let  it  pass ! 


2HG  LITTLE    BY   LITTLE. 

Bid  your  anger  to  depart, 

Let  it  pass  ! 
Lay  these  homely  words  to  heart, 

"  Let  it  pass  !  " 
Follow  not  the  giddy  throng ; 
Better  to  be  wronged  than  wrong ; 
Therefore  sing  the  cheery  song,  — 

Let  it  pass  ! 

Let  it  pass  ! 

All  the  Year  Round. 


LITTLE   BY   LITTLE. 

One  step  and  then  another, 

And  the  longest  walk  is  ended  ; 
One  stitch  and  then  another, 

And  the  largest  rent  is  mended ; 
One  brick  upon  another, 

And  the  highest  wall  is  made  ; 
One  flake  upon  another, 

And  the  deepest  snow  is  laid. 

So  the  little  coral  workers, 

By  their  slow  but  constant  motion, 
Have  built  those  pretty  islands 

In  the  distant  dark-blue  ocean  ; 


LITTLE    BY    LITTLE.  237 

And  the  noblest  undertakings 

Man's  wisdom  hath  conceived, 
By  oft-repeated  efforts 

Have  been  patiently  achieved. 

Then  do  not  look  disheartened 

O'er  the  work  you  have  to  do, 
And  say  that  such  a  mighty  task 

You  never  can  get  through  : 
But  just  endeavor  day  by  day 

Another  point  to  gain, 
And  soon  the  mountain  which  you  feared 

Will  prove  to  be  a  plain. 

"Rome  was  not  builded  in  a  day," 

The  ancient  proverb  teaches  : 
And  Nature,  by  her  trees  and  flowers, 

The  same  sweet  sermon  preaches. 
Think  not  of  far-off  duties. 

But  of  duties  which  are  near  : 
And,  having  once  begun  to  work, 

Resolve  to  persevere. 


THE    LADDER   OF   ST.  AUGUSTINE. 


THE   LADDER   OF   ST.  AUGUSTINE. 

SAINT  Augustine  !  well  hast  thou  said, 
That  of  our  vices  we  can  frame 

A  ladder,  if  we  will  but  tread 

Beneath  our  feet  each  deed  of  shame  ! 

All  common  things  —  each  day's  events, 
That  with  the  hour  begin  and  end ; 

Our  pleasures  and  our  discontents  — 
Are  rounds  by  which  we  may  ascend. 

The  low  desire  ;  the  base  design 
That  makes  another's  virtues  less  ; 

The  revel  of  the  giddy  wine, 
And  all  occasions  of  excess ; 

The  longing  for  ignoble  things  ; 

The  strife  for  triumph  more  than  truth ; 
The  hardening  of  the  heart,  that  brings 

Irreverence  for  the  dream  of  youth  ; 

All  thoughts  of  ill;  all  evil  deeds, 

That  have  their  root  in  thoughts  of  ill ; 
Whatever  hinders  or  impedes 

The  action  of  the  noble  will, — 


THE  LADDER  OF  ST.  AUGUSTINE.       239 

All  these  must  first  be  trampled  down 
Beneath  our  feet,  if  we  would  gain, 

In  the  bright  fields  of  Fair  Renown 
The  right  of  eminent  domain  ! 

We  have  not  wings,  —  we  cannot  soar ; 

But  we  have  feet  to  scale  and  climb, 
By  slow  degrees,  — by  more  and  more,  — 

The  cloudy  summits  of  our  time. 

The  mighty  pyramids  of  stone 

That  wedge-like  cleave  the  desert  airs, 

When  nearer  seen,  and  better  known, 
Are  but  gigantic  flights  of  stairs. 

The  distant  mountains,  that  uprear 
Their  frowning  foreheads  to  the  skies, 

Are  crossed  by  pathways,  that  appear 
As  we  to  higher  levels  rise. 

The  heights  by  great  men  reached  and  kept 
Were  not  attained  by  sudden  flight ; 

But  they,  while  their  companions  slept, 
Were  toiling  upward  in  the  night. 

Standing  on  what  too  long  we  bore 

With  shoulders  bent,  and  downcast  eyes, 

We  may  discern  —  unseen  before  — 
A  path  to  higher  destinies. 


240  MOVE   ox. 

Nor  deem  the  irrevocable  Past 

As  wholly  wasted,  wholly  vain, 
If,  rising  on  its  wrecks,  at  last 

To  something  nobler  we  attain. 


H.  \\\  Longfellow. 


MOVE    ON. 

All  the  stars  in  heaven  are  moving, 
Ever  round  the  bright  spheres  roving, 
Twinkling,  beaming,  raying,  shining, 
Blackest  night  with  brightness  lining  ; 
Aye  revolving  through  the  years, 
Playing  music  of  the  spheres, 
Like  the  eastern  star  of  old 
Moving  toward  the  shepherd's  fold, 
Where  the  wise  men  —  grace  to  them  I 
Found  the  Babe  of  Bethlehem. 
God  is  in  each  moving  star ; 
God  drives  on  the  Pleiad  car  : 
Let  his  will  on  earth  be  done 
As  in  heaven  the  star-  move  on. 

Move  on  !   keep  moving  ! 

Progress  is  the  law  of  loving  ! 

All  the  waves  of  sea  are  flowing, 

As  the  winds  of  heaven  are  blowing; 


MOVE    OX. 

With  a  gentle  beam-like  quiver 
Flows  the  streamlet  to  the  river : 
With  a  stronger-waved  commotion 
Flows  the  river  to  the  ocean  ; 
While  seas'  billows  evermore 
Flow  and  gain  upon  the  shore, 
Wave  on  wave  in  bright  spray  leaping, 
Like  endeavors  never  sleeping  : 
While  the  pool,  which  moveth  never, 
Grows  a  stagnant  boo:  for  ever ; 
White-gilled  die  its  tenant  tench, 
Green  its  water,  foul  its  stench, 
Wildering  marsh-fires  o'er  it  run, 
While  straight  flows  the  river  on. 

Move  on  !  keep  moving  ! 

Progress  is  the  law  of  loving. 

Thus  within  the  skies  and  ocean 
Life  is  married  unto  motion ; 
Stars  revolve,  and  rivers  flow. 
And  earth,  what  said  Galileo  ? 
When  in  dungeon  damply  lying, 
Faint  and  tortured,  hardly  dying, 
Yet  for  truth,  with  honest  pride, 
Yet,  "It  moves  !  it  moves  !  "  he  cried. 
And  the  world?  its  life  is  motion, 
As  with  stars  and  as  with  ocean. 
It  is  moving,  it  is  growing, 
All  its  tides  are  onward  flowing ; 
16 


241 


242    THE  GRAIN  OF  CORN  AND  THE  PENNY. 

The  hand  is  moving  towards  the  loaf, 
The  eye  is  moving  to  the  roof, 
The  mind  is  moving  to  the  book, 
The  soul  lives  in  a  moving  look, 
The  hand  is  moving  from  the  sword, 
The  heart  is  moving  towards  the  Lord  ! 
Move  on  !  keep  moving  ! 


Progress  is  the  law  of  loving ! 


Goodwin  Barmbt. 


THE    GRAIN   OF   CORN  AND   THE   PENNY. 

A  GRAIN  of  corn  an  infant's  hand 

May  plant  upon  an  inch  of  land, 

Whence  twenty  stalks  may  spring  and  yield 

Enough  to  stock  a  little  field. 

The  harvest  of  that  field  mteht  then 

Be  multiplied  to  ten  times  ten, 

"Which,  sown  thrice  more,  would  furnish  bread, 

"Wherewith  an  army  might  be  fed. 

A  penny  is  a  little  thing, 

Which  e'en  the  poor  man's  child  may  fling 

Into  the  treasury  of  heaven, 

And  make  it  worth  as  much  as  seven. 

As  seven!  nay,  worth  its  weight  in  gold, 

And  that  increased  a  million-fold  ; 


A  PLAIN"  man's  philosophy.  243 

For  lo  !  a  penny  tract,  applied 
But  well,  ruay  save  a  soul  alive. 
That  soul  can  scarce  be  saved  alone  : 
It  must,  it  will,  its  bliss  make  known. 
"  Come/'  it  will  cry,  ■  and  you  shall  see 
What  great  things  God  has  done  for  me  !  " 

©  © 

Hundreds  that  joyful  sound  may  hear,  — 

Hear  with  the  heart  as  well  as  ear  ; 

And  these  to  thousands  more  proclaim 

Salvation  in  the  "  Only  Xaine  :  " 

Till  everv  tongue  and  tribe  shall  call 

On  Jesus  as  the  Lord  of  all. 

J.  Montgomery-. 


A   PLAIN   ALAN'S   PHILOSOPHY. 

I've  a  guinea  I  can  spend, 

I've  a  wife,  and  I've  a  friend. 
And  a  troop  of  little  children  at  my  knee,  John  Brown  ; 

I*ve  a  cottage  of  my  own, 

With  the  ivy  overgrown, 
And  a  garden  with  a  view  of  the  sea,  John  Brown ; 

I  can  sit  at  my  door 

By  my  shady  sycamore, 
Large    of  heart,   though    of  very   small    estate,   John 
Brown ; 


244  A  PLAIN  man's  philosophy. 

So  come,  and  sit  with  me 
In  my  arbor  by  the  sea, 
And  I'll  tell  you  what  I  love,  and  what  I  hate,  John 
Brown. 


I  love  the  song  of  birds, 

And  the  children's  early  words, 

And  a  loving  woman's  voice,   low  and  sweet,   John 
Brown  ; 

And  I  hate  a  false  pretence, 
And  the  want  of  common  sense, 

And  arrogance  and  fawning  and  deceit,  John  Brown. 
I  love  the  meadow  flowers, 
And  the  briar  in  the  bowers, 

And  I  love  an  open  face  without  guile,  John  Brown ; 
And  I  hate  a  selfish  knave, 
And  a  proud,  contented  slave, 

And  a  lout  who'd  rather  borrow  than  he'd  toil,  John 
Brown. 

I  love  a  simple  song 
That  awakes  emotions  strong, 
And  the  word  of  hope  that  raises  him  who  faints,  John 
Brown  ; 

And  I  hate  the  constant  whine 
Of  the  foolish  who  repine, 
And    turn    their    good    to    evil   by   complaints,   John 
Brown : 


WHAT   I  LIVE   FOR.  245 

The  hatred  flies  my  mind, 
And  I  sigh  for  human  kind, 
And  excuse  the  faults  of  those  I  cannot  love,  John 


Brown. 


Chables  Mac  kay. 


WHAT  I   LIVE   FOR. 

I  live  for  those  who  love  me, 
Whose  hearts  are  kind  and  true ; 

For  the  heaven  that  smiles  above  me, 
And  awaits  my  spirit  too ; 

For  all  human  ties  that  bind  me ; 

For  the  task  my  God  assigned  me ; 

For  the  bright  hopes  left  behind  me, 
And  the  good  that  I  can  do. 

I  live  to  learn  their  story 

Who've  suffered  for  my  sake ; 

To  emulate  their  glory, 
And  follow  in  their  wake ; 

Bards,  patriots,  martyrs,  sages, 

The  noble  of  all  ages, 

W^hose  deeds  crowned  History's  pages, 
And  Time's  great  volume  make. 

I  live  to  hold  communion 
With  all  that  is  divine  ; 


246  WHAT  I  LIVE  FOR. 

To  feel  there  is  a  union 

'Twixt  Nature's  heart  and  mine ; 

To  profit  by  affliction, 

Reap  truths  from  fields  of  fiction, 

Grow  wiser  from  conviction, 
And  fulfil  each  grand  design. 

I  live  to  hail  that  season, 

By  gifted  minds  foretold, 
When  men  shall  live  by  reason, 

And  not  alone  by  gold ; 
When,  man  to  man  united, 
And  every  wrong  thing  righted, 
The  whole  world  shall  be  lighted 

As  Eden  was  of  old. 

I  live  for  those  who  love  me, 

For  those  who  know  me  true  ; 
For  the  heaven  that  smiles  above  me, 

And  awaits  my  spirit  too  ; 

For  the  cause  that  lacks  assistance  ; 

For  the  wrong  that  needs  resistance  ; 

For  the  future  in  the  distance, 

And  the  good  that  I  can  do. 

G.  L.  Banks. 


a  man's  a  man  for  a'  that.  247 


A   MAX'S   A   MAN   FOR  A'   THAT. 

Is  there  for  honest  poverty, 

Wha  hangs  his  head,  and  a'  that? 
The  coward  slave  we  pass  him  by, 

And  dare  be  poor,  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Our  toils  obscure,  an'  a'  that ; 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea  stamp, 

The  man's  the  gowd,  for  a'  that. 

What  though  on  hamely  fare  we  dine, 

Wear  hodden  gray,  and  a'  that  ? 
Gie  fools  their  silk,  and  knaves  their  wine, 

A  man's  a  man,  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Their  tinsel  show,  an'  a'  that ; 
An  honest  man,  though  ne'er  so  poor, 

Is  chief  o'  men,  for  a'  that. 

Ye  see  yon  birkie,  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wha  struts  and  stares,  and  a'  that, 
Though  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 

He's  but  a  cuif,  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

His  ribbon,  star,  and  a'  that : 
A  man  of  independent  mind 

Can  look,  and  laugh  at  a'  that. 


248  THE   ROYAL   PEDIGREE. 

The  king  can  mak'  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  and  a'  that : 
An  honest  man's  aboon  his  might ; 

Gude  faith  he  manna  fa'  that ! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

His  dignities  and  a'  that ; 
The  pith  o'  sense,  and  pride  o'  worth, 

Are  grander  far  than  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may, 

As  come  it  shall  for  a'  that, 
That  sense  and  worth  o'er  a'  the  earth 

Shall  bear  the  gree,  and  a'  that ; 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

It's  coming  yet,  for  a'  that, 

Whan  man  to  man,  the  warld  o'er, 

Shall  brothers  be,  and  a'  that. 

Robert  Burns. 


THE   ROYAL   PEDIGREE. 

Let  those  who  will,  claim  gentle  birth, 
And  take  their  pride  in  Norman  blood  : 
The  purest  ancestry  on  earth 
Must  find  its  spring  in  Adam's  mud ; 
And  all,  though  noble  now  or  base, 
From  the  same  level  took  their  rise, 
And  side  by  side,  in  loving  grace, 
Leaped,  crystal-clear,  from  Paradise. 


THE   ROYAL   PEDIGREE.  249 

We  are  no  spawn  of  bartered  love, 

That's  wedded  to  the  heart  with  gold, 

Put  on  as  lightly  as  a  glove, 

As  lightly  doffed,  scarce  three  days  old,  — 

A  love  that  marries  lands  to  lands, 

The  passion  of  two  title-deeds  ; 

That  loosely  rivets  two  cold  hands 

And  idler  heirs  to  idlers  breeds. 

Large-limbed,  the  friend  of  sun  and  air, 

Its  sinewy  arms  with  labor  brown  ; 

With  glad,  strong  soul  that  seemed  to  wear 

Its  human  nature  like  a  crown,  — 

Such  was  the  love  from  which  we  sprang, 

A  love  clear-hearted  as  the  morn, 

Which  through  life's  toils  and  troubles  sang 

Like  a  tall  reaper  'mid  the  corn. 

Life  lay  before  us  bare  and  broad 
To  conquer  with  two  hands  alone  ; 
But  we  had  faith  in  man  and  God, 
And  proudly  claimed  our  Father's  throne  : 
We  made  our  vassal  of  the  now, 
And  from  its  want  and  woe  and  wrong 
Our  hearts  rose  lightly  as  a  bough 
From  which  a  bird  hath  soared  in  sonsr 


e 


Among  our  sires  no  high-born  chief 
Freckled  his  hands  with  peasant  gore, 


250  THE    ROYAL    PEDIGREE. 

No  spurred  and  coroneted  thief 
Set  his  mailed  heel  upon  the  floor ; 
No  :  we  are  come  of  nobler  line, 
With  larger  heart  "within  the  breast, 
Large  heart  by  suffering  made  divine,  — 
"We  draw  our  lineage  from  the  oppressed. 

Not  from  the  sceptred  brutes  who  reigned, 
But  from  the  humble  souls  who  bore, 
And  so  a  godlike  patience  gained, 
Which,  suffering  much,  could  suffer  more, 
"Which  learned  forgiveness,  and  the  grace 
That  cometh  of  a  bended  knee,  — 
From  martyrs  such  as  these  we  trace 
Our  royal  genealogy. 

There's  not  a  great  soul  gone  before 

That  is  not  numbered  in  our  clan, 

"Who,  when  the  world  took  side  with  power, 

Stood  boldly  on  the  side  of  Man ; 

All  hero-spirits,  plain  and  grand, 

"Who  for  the  ages  ope  the  door, 

All  Labor's  dusty  monarchs  stand 

Among  the  children  of  the  poor. 

Let  others  boast  of  ancestors 
Who  handed  down  some  idle  right 
To  stand  beside  their  tyrant's  horse, 
Or  buckle  his  spurs  before  the  fight ; 


THE    LORDS    OF    THULE.  251 

We,  too,  have  our  ancestral  claim 
Of  marching  ever  in  the  van, 
Of  giving  ourselves  to  steel  and  flame, 
Where  aught's  to  be  achieved  for  man. 

And  is  not  this  a  family-tree 

Worth  keeping  fair  from  age  to  age? 

Was  ever  such  an  ancestry 

Gold-blazoned  on  the  herald's  page  ? 

In  dear  Xew  England  let  us  still 

Maintain  our  race  and  title  pure, 

The  men  and  women  of  heart  and  will, 

The  monarchs  who  endure. 

James  R.  Lowell 


THE   LORDS   OF   THULE. 

The  lords  of  Thule  it  did  not  please, 

That  Willegis  their  bishop  was  ; 

For  he  was  a  wagoner's  son, 

And  they  drew,  to  do  him  scorn, 

Wheels  of  chalk  upon  the  wall. 

He  found  them  in  chamber,  found  them  in  hall ; 

But  the  pious  Willegis 

Could  not  be  moved  to  bitterness. 

Seeing  the  wheels  upon  the  wall, 

He  bade  his  servants  a  painter  call ; 


252  ABRAIIAM  LINCOLN. 

And  said,  "My  friend,  paint  now  for  me, 
On  every  wall  that  I  may  see, 
A  wheel  of  white  in  a  field  of  red, 
Underneath,  in  letters  plain  to  be  read,  — 
f  Willegis,  bishop  now  by  name, 
Forget  not  whence  you  came.'" 

The  lords  of  Thule  were  full  of  shame, 
They  wiped  away  their  works  of  blame ; 
For  they  saw  that  scorn  and  jeer 
Cannot  wound  the  wise  man's  ear. 
And  all  the  bishops  that  after  him  came, 
Quartered  the  wheel  with  their  arms  of  fame. 
Thus  came  to  pious  Willegis 
Glory  out  of  bitterness. 


ABRAHAM   LINCOLN. 

A    CONFESSION. 

You  lay  a  wreath  on  murdered  Lincoln's  bier,  — 
You  who  with  mocking  pencil  wont  to  trace, 

Broad  for  the  self-complacent  British  sneer, 

His  length  of  shambling  limb  ;  his  furrowed  face  ; 

His  gaunt,  gnarled  hands  ;   his  unkempt,  bristling  hair  ; 

His  garb  uncouth  ;  his  bearing,  ill  at  ease  ; 
His  lack  of  all  we  prize  as  debonair, 

Of  power  or  will  to  shine,  of  art  to  please,  — 


ABRAHAM   LINCOLN.  253 

You,  whose  smart  pen  backed  up  the  pencil's  laugh, 
Judging  each  step,  as  though  the  way  were  plain ; 

Reckless,  so  it  could  point  its  paragraph, 
Of  chief's  perplexity,  or  people's  pain. 

Beside  this  corpse,  that  bears  for  winding-sheet 
The  Stars  and  Stripes  he  lived  to  rear  anew, 

Between  the  mourners  at  his  head  and  feet, 
Say,  scurrile  jester,  is  there  room  for  you? 

Yes,  he  had  lived  to  shame  me  from  my  sneer, 
To  lame  my  pencil,  and  confute  my  pen,  — 

To  make  me  own  this  hind  of  princes  peer, 
This  rail- splitter  a  true-born  king  of  men. 

My  shallow  judgment  I  had  learnt  to  rue, 
Noting  how  to  occasion's  height  he  rose ; 

How  his  quaint  wit  made  home-truth  seem  more  true ; 
How,  iron-like,  his  temper  grew  by  blows ; 

How  humble,  yet  how  hopeful,  he  could  be ; 

How  in  good  fortune  and  in  ill  the  same  : 
Nor  bitter  in  success,  nor  boastful  he, 

Thirsty  for  gold,  nor  feverish  for  fame. 

He  went  about  his  work  —  such  work  as  few 
Ever  had  laid  on  head  and  heart  and  hand  — 

As  one  who  knows  where  there's  a  task  to  do, 

Man's  honest  will  must  Heaven's  good  grace  command ; 


254  ABRAHAM   LINCOLN. 

Who  trusts  the  strength  will  with  the  burden  grow; 

That  God  makes  instruments  to  work  his  will, 
If  but  that  will  we  can  arrive  to  know, 

Nor  tamper  with  the  weights  of  good  and  ill. 

So  he  went  forth  to  battle,  on  the  side 

That  he  felt  clear  was  Liberty's  and  Right's ; 

As  in  his  peasant  boyhood  he  had  plied 

His  warfare  with  rude  Nature's  thwarting  mights,  — 

The  uncleared  forest,  the  unbroken  soil, 

The  iron  bark  that  turns  the  lumberer's  axe, 

The  rapid  that  o'erbears  the  boatman's  toil, 

The  prairie,  hiding  the  mazed  wanderer's  tracks, 

The  ambushed  Indian,  and  the  prowling  bear, — 
Such  were  the  needs  that  helped  his  youth  to  train. 

Rough  culture  :  but  such  trees  large  fruit  may  bear, 
If  but  their  stocks  be  of  ri^ht  girth  and  grain. 

So  he  grew  up,  a  destined  work  to  do, 

And  lived  to  do  it :  four  long-suffering  years' 

Ill-fate,  ill-feeling,  ill-report,  lived  through  ; 
And  then  he  heard  the  hisses  change  to  cheers, 

The  taunts  to  tribute,  the  abuse  to  praise, 

And  took  both  with  the  same  unwavering  mood; 

Till,  ms  he  came  on  light,  from  darkling  days, 

And  seemed  to  touch  the  goal  from  where  he  stood, 


ABRAHAM   LDs'COLN.  255 

A  felon  hand,  between  the  goal  and  him, 

Beached  from  behind  his  back,  a  trigger  prest,  — 

And  those  perplexed  and  patient  eyes  were  dim ; 
Those  gaunt,  long-laboring  limbs  were  laid  to  rest. 

The  words  of  mercy  were  upon  his  lips, 
Forgiveness  in  his  heart  and  on  his  pen, 

When  this  vile  murderer  brought  swift  eclipse 

To  thoughts  of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men. 

The  Old  World  and  the  Xew,  from  sea  to  sea, 
Utter  one  voice  of  sympathy  and  shame  ! 

Sore  heart,  so  stopped  when  it  at  last  beat  high ; 
Sad  life,  cut  short  just  as  its  triumph  came. 

A  deed  accurst !     Strokes  have  been  struck  before 
By  the  assassin's  hand,  whereof  men  doubt 

If  more  of  horror  or  disgrace  they  bore ; 

But  thy  foul  crime,  like  Cain's,  stands  darkly  out. 

Vile  hand,  that  brandest  murder  on  a  strife, 

Whate'er  its  grounds,  stoutly  and  nobly  striven ; 

And  with  the  martyr's  crown  crownest  a  life 

With  much  to  praise,  little  to  be  forgiven. 

London  Punch. 
April,  1865. 


V<A^' 


KING  JOHX,  AND  THE  ABBOT  OF  CANTER- 
BURY. 


e^X  ancient  story  1*11  tell  you  anon 
i   Of  a   notable   prince  that  was    called   King 
■ ;  John : 


And  he  ruled  England  with  main  and  with  might, 
For  he  did  great  wrong,  and  maintained  little  right. 

And  I'll  tell  you  a  story,  a  story  so  merry, 
Concerning  the  Abbot  of  Canterbury ; 
How,  for  his  housekeeping  and  high  renown, 
They  rode  post  for  him  to  fair  London  town. 

An  hundred  men,  the  king  did  hear  say, 
The  Abbot  kept  in  his  house  every  day ; 
And  fifty  gold  chains,  without  any  doubt, 
In  velvet  coats  waited  the  Abbot  about. 

[259] 


2 GO  KING   JOHN   AND   THE   ABBOT. 

"  How  now,  Father  Abbot,  I  hear  it  of  thee, 
Thou  keepest  a  far  better  house  than  me ; 
And,  for  thy  housekeeping  and  high  renown, 
I  fear  thou  work'st  treason  against  my  crown  ?  " 

''  My  liege,"  quoth  the  Abbot,  "I  would  it  were  known 
I  never  spend  nothing  but  what  is  my  own  ; 
And  I  trust  Your  Grace  will  do  me  no  deere 
For  spending  of  my  own  true  golden  geere?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  Father  Abbot,  thy  fault  it  is  high, 
And  now  for  the  same  thou  needest  must  die ; 
For,  except  thou  canst  answer  me  questions  three, 
Thy  head  shall  be  smitten  from  thy  bodie. 

And  first,"  quoth  the  king,  "  when  I'm  in  this  stead, 
With  my  crown  of  gold  so  fair  on  my  head, 
Among  all  my  liege-men  so  noble  of  birth, 
Thou  must  tell  me  to  one  penny  what  I  am  worth. 

Secondly,  tell  me,  without  any  doubt, 
How  soon  I  may  ride  the  whole  world  about ; 
And  at  the  third  question  thou  must  not  shrink, 
But  tell  me  here  truly  what  I  do  think." 

"Oh  !  these  are  hard  questions  for  my  shallow  wit, 
Nor  I  cannot  answer  Your  Grace  as  yet  : 
But,  if  you  will  give  me  but  three  weeks'  space, 
I'll  do  my  endeavor  to  answer  Your  Grace." 


-KING  JOHN   AND   THE   ABBOT.  261 

"Now  three  weeks'  space  to  thee  will  I  give, 
And  that  is  the  longest  time  thou  hast  to  live  ; 
For,  if  thou  dost  not  answer  my  questions  three, 
Thy  lands  and  thy  livings  are  forfeit  to  me." 

Away  rode  the  Abbot  all  sad  at  that  word ; 
And  he  rode  to  Cambridge  and  Oxenford : 
But  never  a  doctor  there  was  so  wise, 
That  could  with  his  learning  an  answer  devise. 

Then  home  rode  the  Abbot  of  comfort  so  cold, 
And  he  met  his  shepherd  a  going  to  fold : 
"How  now,  my  lord  Abbot,  you  are  welcome  home ; 
"What  news  do  you  bring  us  from  good  King  John  ?  " 

"  Sad  news,  sad  news,  shepherd,  I  must  give, 
That  I  have  but  three  days  more  to  live  ; 
For,  if  I  do  not  answer  him  questions  three, 
My  head  will  be  smitten  from  my  bodie. 

The  first  is  to  tell  him  there  in  that  stead, 
With  his  crown  of  gold  so  fair  on  his  head, 
Among  all  his  liege-men  so  noble  of  birth, 
To  within  one  penny  of  what  he  is  worth. 

The  second,  to  tell  him  without  any  doubt, 
How  soou  he  may  ride  this  whole  world  about ; 
And  at  the  third  question  I  must  not  shrink, 
But  tell  him  there  truly  what  he  does  think." 


2G2  KING    JOHN    AM)    THE    ABBOT. 

"Now  cheer  up,  Sir  Abbot,  did  you  never  hear  yet, 
That  a  fool  he  may  learn  a  wise  man  wit? 
Lend  nie  horse  and  serving-men  and  your  apparel. 
And  I'll  ride  to  London  to  answer  your  quarrel. 

Nay,  frown  not,  if  it  hath  been  told  unto  me, 
I  am  like  your  lordship  as  ever  may  be ; 
And,  if  you  will  but  lend  me  your  gown, 
There  is  none  shall  know  us  in  fair  London  town." 

"Now  horses  and  serving-men  thou  shalt  have, 
With  sumptuous  array  most  gallant  and  brave, 
With  crozier  and  mitre  and  rochet  and  cope, 
Fit  to  appear  Yore  our  father  the  Pope." 

"Now  welcome,  Sir  Abbot,"  the  king  he  did  say, 
"  'Tis  well  thou'rt  come  back  to  keep  thy  day  ; 
For,  and  if  thou  canst  answer  my  questions  three, 
Thy  life  and  thy  living  both  saved  shall  be. 

And  first,  when  thou  seest  me  here  in  this  stead, 
With  my  crown  of  gold  so  fair  on  my  head, 
Among  all  my  liege-men  so  noble  of  birth, 
Tell  me  to  one  penny  what  I  am  worth." 

"  For  thirty  pence  our  Saviour  was  sold 
Among  the  false  Jews,  as  I  have  been  told ; 
And  twenty-nine  is  the  worth  of  thee, 
For  I  think  thou  art  one  penny  worser  than  he." 


KING  JOHN  AND  THE  ABBOT.         263 

The  King  he  laughed,  and  swore  by  St.  Bittel, 
"  I  did  not  think  I  had  been  worth  so  little  ! 
Now,  secondly,  tell  me,  without  any  doubt, 
How  soon  I  may  ride  this  whole  world  about." 

"You  must  rise  with  the  sun,  and  ride  with  the  same, 
Until  the  next  morning  he  riseth  again  ; 
And  then  Your  Grace  need  not  make  any  doubt, 
But  in  twenty -four  hours  you'll  ride  it  about." 

The  King  he  laughed,  and  swore  by  St.  Jorie, 
"  I  did  not  think  it  could  be  gone  so  soon  : 
Now  from  the  third  question  thou  must  not  shrink, 
But  tell  me  here  truly  what  I  do  think." 

"Yea,  that  shall  I  do,  and  make  your  grace  merry  : 
You  think  I'm  the  Abbot  of  Canterbury  ; 
But  I'm  his  poor  shepherd,  as  plain  you  may  see, 
That  am  come  to  beg  pardon  for  him  and  for  me." 

The  King  he  laughed,  and  swore  by  the  mass, 
"  I'll  make  thee  Lord  Abbot  this  day  in  his  place  !  " 
"  Nay,  nay,  my  liege,  be  not  in  such  speed ; 
For,  alack  !  I  can  neither  write  nor  read." 

"  Four  nobles  a  week,  then,  I  will  give  thee, 
For  this  merry  jest  thou  hast  shown  unto  me  ; 
And  tell  the  old  Abbot,  when  thou  comest  home, 
Thou  hast  brought  him  a  pardon  from  good  King  John." 

Old  Ballad. 


^04  BISHOP   IIATTO. 


BISHOP   HATTO. 

The  summer  and  autumn  had  been  so  wet, 
That  in  winter  the  corn  was  growing  yet ; 
fTwas  a  piteous  sight  to  see  all  around 
The  grain  lie  rotting  on  the  ground. 

Every  day  the  starving  poor 
Crowded  around  Bishop  Hatto's  door ; 
For  he  had  a  plentiful  last  year's  store, 
And  all  the  neighborhood  could  tell 
His  granaries  were  furnished  well. 

At  last  Bishop  Hatto  appointed  a  day 

To  quiet  the  poor  without  delay ; 

He  bade  them  to  his  great  barn  repair, 

And  they  should  have  food  for  the  winter  there. 

Rejoiced  such  tidings  good  to  hear, 
The  poor  folk  flocked  from  far  and  near  ; 
The  great  barn  was  full  as  it  could  hold 
Of  women  and  children,  and  young  and  old. 

Then  when  he  saw  it  could  hold  no  more, 
Bishop  Hatto  lie  made  fast  the  door; 
And,  while  for  mercy  on  Christ  they  call, 
He  set  fire  to  the  barn,  and  burnt  them  all. 


BISHOP   HATTO.  265 

T  faith,  'tis  an  excellent  bonfire  !  "  quoth  he, 
"  And  the  country  is  greatly  obliged  to  me 
For  ridding  it,  in  these  times  forlorn, 
Of  rats,  that  only  consume  the  corn." 

So  then  to  his  palace  returned  he, 

And  he  sat  down  to  supper  merrily  ; 

And  he  slept  that  night  like  an  innocent  man, 

But  Bishop  Hatto  never  slept  again. 

In  the  morning  as  he  entered  the  hall, 
Where  his  picture  hung  against  the  wall, 
A  sweat  like  death  all  over  him  came ; 
For  the  rats  had  eaten  it  out  of  the  frame. 

As  he  looked,  there  came  a  man  from  the  farm ; 
He  had  a  countenance  white  with  alarm  : 
"My  lord,  I  opened  your  granaries  this  morn, 
And  the  rats  had  eaten  all  your  corn." 

Another  came  running  presently, 
And  he  was  pale  as  pale  could  be  : 
"  Fly  !  my  Lord  Bishop,  fly  ! '  quoth  he, 
"  Ten  thousand  rats  are  coming  this  way  : 
The  Lord  forgive  you  for  yesterday  !  " 

"  I'll  go  to  my  tower  on  the  Rhine,"  replied  he, 
"  'Tis  the  safest  place  in  Germany ; 
The  walls  are  high,  and  the  shores  are  steep, 
And  the  stream  is  strong,  and  the  water  deep." 


2GG  Bisnop  HATTO. 

Bishop  Hatto  fearfully  hastened  away, 
And  he  crossed  the  Rhine  without  delay, 
And  reached  his  tower,  and  barred  with  care 
All  the  windows,  doors,  and  loop-holes  there. 

He  laid  him  down ,  and  closed  his  eyes  ; 
But  soon  a  scream  made  him  arise  : 
He  started,  and  saw  two  eyes  of  flame 
On  his  pillow  whence  the  screaming  came. 

He  listened  and  looked  :  it  was  only  the  cat ; 
But  the  bishop  he  grew  more  fearful  for  that, 
For  she  sat  screaming,  mad  with  fear, 
At  the  army  of  rats  that  was  drawing  near. 

For  they  have  swum  over  the  river  so  deep, 
And  they  have  climbed  the  shores  so  steep, 
And  up  the  tower  their  way  is  bent 
To  do  the  work  for  which  they  were  sent. 

They  are  not  to  be  told  by  the  dozen  or  score ; 
By  thousands  they  come,  and  by  myriads  and  more 
Such  numbers  had  never  been  heard  of  before, 
Such  a  judgment  had  never  been  witnessed  of  yore, 

Down  on  his  knees  the  Bishop  fell, 

And  faster  and  faster  his  beads  did  he  tell, 

As  Louder  and  louder  drawing  near 

The  gnawing  of  their  teeth  he  could  hear. 


XATOLEOX   AND    THE    BRITISH    SOLDIER. 

And  in  at  the  windows,  and  in  at  the  door, 
And  through  the  walls,  helter-skelter  they  pour, 
And  down  from  the  ceiling,  and  up  through  the  floor, 
From  the  right  and  the  left,  from  behind  and  before, 
From  within  and  without,  from  above  and  below, 
And  all  at  once  to  the  Bishop  they  go. 

They  have  whetted  their  teeth  against  the  stones, 
And  now  they  pick  the  Bishop's  bones  ; 
They  gnawed  the  flesh  from  every  limb, 
For  they  were  sent  to  do  judgment  on  him. 

R.    SOUTHEY. 


NAPOLEON   AND    THE    BRITISH    SOLDIER. 

I  love  contemplating,  apart 

From  all  his  homicidal  glory, 
The  traits  that  soften  to  our  heart 

Xapoleon's  story. 

'Twas  when  his  banners  at  Boulogne 
Armed  in  our  island  every  freeman, 

His  navy  chanced  to  capture  one 
Poor  British  seaman. 

They  suffered  him,  I  know  not  how, 
Unprisoned  on  the  shore  to  roam  ; 

And  ave  was  bent  his  longing  brow 
On  England's  home. 


268         NAPOLEON     \M>    THE    BRITISH    SOLDIER. 

His  eye,  me  thinks,  pursued  the  flight 
Of  birds,  to  Britian  half-way  over, 

With  envy,  —  they  could  reach  the  white, 
Dear  cliffs  of  Dover. 

A  stormy  midnight  watch,  he  thought, 

Than  this  sojourn  would  have  been  dearer, 

If  but  the  storm  his  vessel  brought 
To  England  nearer. 

At  last,  when  care  had  banished  sleep, 

He  saw  one  morning  —  dreaming,  doting - 

An  empty  hogshead  from  the  deep 
Come  shoreward  floating. 

He  hid  it  in  a  cave,  and  wrought 

The  livelong  day  laborious  ;  lurking, 

Until  he  launched  a  tiny  boat, 
l>y  mighty  working. 

Heaven  help  us  !   'twas  a  thing  beyond 
Description  wretched;   such  a  wherry 

Perhaps  ne'er  ventured  on  a  pond, 
Or  crossed  a  ferry. 

For  ploughing  in  the  salt-sea  field, 

It  would  have  made  the  boldest  shudder: 

Untarred,  uncompassed,  and  unkeeled  ; 
No  sail,  —  no  rudder. 


XAPOLEOX   AXD    THE    BRITISH    SOLDIER.  269 

From  neighboring  woods  he  interlaced 
His  sorry  skiff  with  wattled  willows  ; 

And,  thus  equipped,  he  would  have  passed 
The  foaming  billows. 

But  Frenchmen  caught  him  on  the  beach, 

His  little  argo  sorely  jeering  ; 
Till  tidings  of  him  chanced  to  reach 

Xapoleon's  hearing. 

With  folded  arms  Xapoleon  stood, 

Serene  alike  in  peace  and  danger ; 
And.  in  his  wonted  attitude, 

Addressed  the  stranger  :  — 

"  Rash  man,  that  wouldst  yon  channel  pass 
On  twigs  and  staves  so  rudely  fashioned  ! 

Thy  heart  with  some  sweet  British  lass 
Must  be  impassioned." 

"I  have  no  sweetheart,*'  said  the  lad; 

''But,  absent  long  from  one  another, 
Great  was  the  longing  that  I  had 

To  see  my  mother." 

"And  so  thou  shalt,"  Xapoleon  said : 

"  Ye've  both  my  favor  fairly  won ; 
A  noble  mother  must  have  bred 

So  brave  a  son." 


270         NAPOLEON   AND   THE    BRITISH   SOLDIER. 

He  gave  the  tar  a  piece  of  gold, 

And,  with  a  flag  of  truce,  commanded 

He  should  be  shipped  to  England  Old, 
And  safely  landed. 

Our  sailor  oft  could  scantly  shift 
To  find  a  dinner,  plain  and  hearty ; 

But  never  changed  the  coin  and  gift 
Of  Bonaparte". 


Thomas  Campbell. 


CHILDHOOD. 

m  OT  in  entire  for<retfulness, 
p    And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
Y£sl\J>J    But  trailing  clouds  of  glory,  do  we  come 
From  God,  who  is  our  home  : 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy  ! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  Boy  : 
But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows  ; 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy  : 
The  Youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  East 
Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  priest, 
And  by  the  vision  splendid 
Is  on  his  way  attended  : 
At  length,  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

18  [273  J 


274  THE    TEACHER. 

Thou  whose  exterior  semblance  cloth  belie 

Thy  soul's  immensity  ; 
Thou  best  philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage;  thou  eye  among  the  blind, 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep, 
Haunted  for  ever  by  the  eternal  mind,  — 

Mighty  prophet !  seer  blest ! 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest, 
Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find, 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave ; 
Thou  over  whom  thy  immortality 
Broods  like  the  day,  a  master  o'er  a  slave, 
A  presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by ; 
Thou  little  Child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 
Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's  height,  — 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke, 
Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife  ? 
Full  soon  thy  soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight, 
And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life ! 

"Wordsworth. 


THE    TEACHER. 

When  the  lessons  and  tasks  are  all  ended, 
And  the  school  for  the  day  is  dismissed, 

The  little  ones  gather  around  me 

To  bid  me  good-night,  and  be  kissed  ; 


.    THE    TEACHER.  275 

Oh  the  little  white  arms  that  encircle 

My  neck  in  their  tender  embrace  ! 
Oh  the  smiles  that  are  halos  of  heaven, 

Shedding  sunshine  of  love  on  my  face  ! 


And,  when  they  are  gone,  I  sit  dreaming 

Of  my  childhood,  too  lovely  to  last ; 
Of  love  that  my  heart  will  remember, 

While  it  wakes  to  a  pulse  of-  the  past, 
Ere  the  world  and  its  wickedness  made  me 

A  partner  of  sorrow  and  sin  ; 
When  the  glory  of  God  was  about  me, 

And  the  glory  of  gladness  within. 

Oh !  my  heart  grows  as  weak  as  a  woman's, 

And  the  fount  of  my  feelings  will  flow, 
When  I  think  of  the  paths  steep  and  stony, 

Where  the  feet  of  the  dear  ones  must  go ; 
Of  the  mountains  of  sin  hanging  o'er  them ; 

Of  the  tempests  of  Fate,  blowing  wild : 
Oh,  there's  nothing  on  earth  half  so  holy 

As  the  innocent  heart  of  a  child  ! 


They  are  idols  of  hearts  and  of  households ; 

They  are  angels  of  God  in  disguise  : 
His  sunlight  still  sleeps  in  their  tresses  ; 

His  glory  still  gleams  in  their  eyes. 


276  THE    TEACHER. 

Oh  those  truants  from  home  and  from  heaven, 
They  have  made  me  more;  manly  and  mild; 

And  I  know  now  how  Jesus  could  liken 
The  kingdom  of  God  to  a  child. 


I  ask  not  a  life  for  the  dear  ones 

All  radiant,  as  others  have  done  ; 
But  that  life  may  have  just  enough  shadow 

To  temper  the  glare  of  the  sun. 
I  would  pray  God  to  guard  them  from  evil, 

But  my  ] travels  would  bound  back  to  myself: 
Ah  !  a  seraph  may  pray  for  a  sinner, 

But  a  sinner  must  pray  for  himself. 

The  twig  is  so  easily  bended, 

I  have  banished  the  rule  and  the  rod  ; 
I  have  taught  them  the  goodness  of  knowledge, 

They  have  taught  me  the  goodness  of  God  : 
My  heart  is  a  dungeon  of  darkness, 

Where  1  shut  them  for  breaking  a  rule  ; 
My  frown  is  sufficient  correction; 

My  love  is  the  law  of  the  school. 


I  shall  leave  the  old  house  in  the  autumn, 
To  traverse  its  threshold  no  more: 

Ah,  how  I  shall  sigh  for  the  dear  ones 
That  meet  me  each  morn  at  the  door  ! 


MY   BOY.  277 

I  shall  miss  the  "good-nights,'*  and  the  kisses, 
And  the  gush  of  their  innocent  glee, 

The  group  on  the  green,  and  the  flowers 
That  are  brought  every  morning  for  me. 

I  shall  miss  them  at  noon  and  at  even,  — 

Their  song  in  the  school  and  the  street ; 
I  shall  miss  the  low  hum  of  their  voices, 

And  the  tramp  of  their  delicate  feet. 
When  the  lessons  of  life  are  all  ended, 

And  Death  says,  "  The  school  is  dismissed," 
May  the  little  ones  gather  around  me, 

To  bid  me  good-night,  and  be  kissed  ! 

Chaeles  Dickixsox. 


MY     BOY. 

I  see  a  cottage  leagues  from  here  ; 

A  garden  near  ;  some  orchard  trees  ; 

A  leafy  glimpse  of  creeping  seas ; 
And  in  the  cottage  something  dear,  — 

A  square  of  sunlight  on  the  floor, 

Blocked  from  the  window  :  in  the  square 
A  happy  child  with  heavenly  hair, 

To  whom  the  world  is  more  and  more. 


278  LITTLE    BENNY   AND    SANTA   CLAUS. 

They  bear  him  to  an  upper  room, 

When  comes  the  eve  :  lie  hums  for  me, 
Like  some  voluptuous  drowsy  bee, 

That  shuts  his  wings  in  honied  gloom. 

I  see  a  shadow  in  a  chair ; 

I  see  a  shadowy  cradle  go  ; 

I  hear  a  ditty,  soft  and  low : 
The  mother  and  the  child  are  there  ! 

At  length  the  balm  of  sleep  is  shed ; 
One  bed  contains  my  bud  and  flower : 
They  sleep  and  dream,  and  hour  by  hour 

Goes  by,  while  angels  watch  the  bed. 

Sleep  on,  and  dream,  ye  blessed  pair  ! 

My  prayer  shall  guard  ye  night  and  day; 

Ye  guard  me  so,  ye  make  me  pray  : 
Ye  make  my  happy  life  a  prayer ! 

Richard  H.  Stoddard. 


LITTLE   BENNY  AND   SANTA   CLAUS. 

I  had  told  him,  Christmas  morning, 

As  he  sat  upon  my  knee, 
Holding  fast  his  little  stocking 

Stuffed  as  full  as  full  could  be, 


LITTLE   BENNY   AND    SANTA   GLAUS.  279 

And  attentive  listening  to  me, 

With  a  face  demure  and  mild, 
That  old  Santa  Claus,  who  filled  them, 

Did  not  love  a  naughty  child. 


"But  we'll  be  good,  won't  we,  moder?" 

And  from  off  my  lap  he  slid, 
Digging  deep  among  the  goodies 

In  the  crimson  stocking  hid  ; 
"While  I  turned  me  to  the  table, 

Where  a  tempting  goblet  stood, 
Brimminor  hio-h  with  dainty  ecrg-no£, 

Sent  me  by  a  neighbor  good. 

But  the  kitten,  there  before  me, 

With  his  white  paw  nothing  loth, 
Sat,  by  way  of  entertainment, 

Slapping  off  the  shining  froth  ; 
And,  in  not  the  gentlest  humor 

At  the  loss  of  such  a  treat, 
I  confess  I  rather  rudely 

Thrust  him  out  into  the  street. 


Then  how  Benny's  blue  eyes  kindled ! 

Gathering  up  the  precious  store 
He  had  busily  been  pouring 

In  his  tiny  pinafore, 


280  LITTLE    BENNY    AND    SANTA    CLAUS. 

With  a  generous  look  that  shamed  me 
Sprang  he  from  the  carpet  bright, 

Showing,  by  his  mien  indignant, 
All  a  baby's  sense  of  right. 


"  Come  back,  Harney  !  "  called  he  loudly, 

As  he  held  his  apron  white  ; 
"  You  shall  have  my  candy  wabbit !  " 

But  the  door  was  fastened  tight. 
So  he  stood  abashed  and  silent, 

In  the  centre  of  the  floor, 
With  defeated  looks  alternate 

Bent  on  me  and  on  the  door. 


Then,  as  by  some  sudden  impulse, 

Quickly  ran  he  to  the  fire, 
And,  while  eagerly  his  bright  eyes 

Watched  the  flames  go  higher  and  higher, 
In  a  brave,  clear  key  he  shouted, 

Like  some  lordly  little  elf, 
w  Santa  Caus,  come  down  the  chimney, 

Make  my  moder  'have  herself !  " 

"I  will  be  a  good  girl,  Benny," 

Said  I,  feeling  the  reproof; 
And  I  straight  recalled  poor  Harney, 

Mewing  on  the  galley  roof. 


281 


Soon  the  anger  was  forgotten, 

Laughter  chased  away  the  frown ; 

And  thev  gambolled  'neath  the  live  oaks 
Till  the  dusk j  night  came  down. 

In  my  dim  fire-lighted  chamber, 

Harney  purred  beneath  my  chair  ; 
And  my  play-worn  boy  beside  me 

Knelt  to  say  his  evening  prayer  : 
fr  God  bless  fader,  God  bless  moder, 

God  bless  sister,"  —  then  a  pause; 
And  the  sweet  young  lips  devoutly 

Murmured,  "  God  bless  Santa  Caus. 

He  is  sleeping  :  brown  and  silken 

Lie  the  lashes,  long  and  meek, 
Like  caressing,  clinging  shadows 

On  his  plump  and  peachy  cheek  ; 
And  I  bend  above  lum  weeping 

Thankful  tears,  —  Oh,  undefiled  ! 
For  a  woman's  crown  of  glory,  — 

For  the  blessing  of  a  child. 


"HE     TOO!" 

"We'll  seek  for  flowers  in  the  woods,' 

I  heard  a  mother  say  ; 
"  For  in  their  shady  solitudes 

My  children  love  to  play. 


282  "me  too!" 

Come,  Willie,  call  (he  other  boys, 
Ere  fulls  the  evening  dew  ;  " 

And  then  another  little  voice, 
Soft  pleading,  said,  "  Me  too  !  " 

Oh  childish  heart  that  could  not  bear 

Her  name  should  be  forgot ! 
Oh  childish  love  that  longed  to  share 

With  all  the  common  lot ! 
Such  tone  should  ne'er  be  heard  in  vain, 

So  tremulous  and  true  ; 
A  link  in  that  sweet  household  chain, 

She  claimed  her  right,  —  "  Me  too  !  " 

But  not  alone  in  childhood's  years 

The  heart  gives  out  this  cry  : 
'Tis  heard  amid  the  silent  tears 

Of  life's  deep  agony. 
The  lonely  soul,  athirst  for  love, 

AYill  cry  as  infants  do, 
And  lift,  all  other  tones  above, 

Its  passionate  —  "  Me  too  !  " 

Formed  by  one  hand,  we  live  and  die  ; 

Before  one  throne  we  kneel ; 
The  longings  of  humanity 

Send  up  one  deep  appeal  : 
Our  nature's  tendrils  intertwine, 

Fed  by  one  common  dew  ; 


283 


None  seek  in  solitude  to  pine, 

Each  heart-throb  says,  "Me  too  ! " 

God  teach  us  then  in  rank  to  stand, 

Firm  as  brave  spirits  should  ; 
Joined  heart  to  heart,  and  hand  to  hand, 

In  holy  brotherhood ; 
And,  casting  off  the  ice  of  pride, 

"Wear  warm  hearts ,  mild  and  true  ; 
Nor  from  the  weakest  turn  aside, 

Who  feebly  cries,  "Me  too!" 


THE    CAPTAIN'S   DAUGHTER. 

We  were  crowded  in  the  cabin, 
Not  a  soul  would  dare  to  sleep  : 

It  was  midnight  on  the  waters, 
And  a  storm  was  on  the  deep. 

'Tis  a  fearful  thing  in  winter 
To  be  shattered  by  the  blast, 

And  to  hear  the  rattling  trumpet 
Thunder,  "  Cut  away  the  mast !  " 

So  we  shuddered  there  in  silence ; 

For  the  stoutest  held  his  breath, 
While  the  hungry  sea  was  roaring, 

And  the  breakers  talked  of  death. 


284         "  CHILD,  CLOSE  THE  DOOR  !  " 

As  thus  we  sat  in  darkness, 

Each  one  busy  with  his  prayers, 

w  We  are  lost !  "  the  captain  shouted, 
As  he  staggered  down  the  stairs. 

But  his  little  daughter  whispered, 
As  she  took  his  icy  hand, 

"  Isn't  God  upon  the  water, 

Just  the  same  as  on  the  land  ?  " 

Then  he  kissed  the  little  maiden, 
And  he  spoke  in  better  cheer ; 

And  we  anchored  safe  in  harbor, 
When  the  morn  was  shining  clear. 


James  T.  Fields. 


"  CHILD,   CLOSE   THE   DOOR  ! " 

K  Child,  close  the  door  !" — "Yet,  mother,  let  me  stay  ; 
For  he  —  the  lovely  stranger  —  comes  this  way. 
I  think  the  gods  can  scarcely  be  so  fair, 
So  gentle,  in  their  air. 

And  once  lie  looked  on  me,  and  sweetly  smiled, 
And  said,  f  I  will  be  with  thee,  precious  child.' 
Ah  !  let  me  call  him  :  he  may  come  no  more." 
"  Child,  close  the  door  !  " 


"  CHILD,  CLOSE  THE  DOOR  !  "        285 

"  Sweet  mother,  let  me  bring  him  bread  and  wine, 
And  purple  clusters  wasting  on  the  vine, 
And  bid  him  stay  with  us  till  night  is  o'er." 
"  Child,  close  the  door  !  " 

"What  is  this  vile-clad  son  of  poverty, 
My  little  lily  of  the  field,  to  thee? 
Where'er  you  meet  him ,  turn  from  him  with  fear : 
Pause  not  his  words  to  hear." 

Ah  !  night  o'er  Bethany  is  closing  fast, 
And  it  has  many  homes ;  and  he  has  passed 
Forth  in  meek  silence,  where  God's  blessed  palms 
Stretch  their  fair,  tender  arms. 

Time  has  grown  olden  since  that  "Wanderer  trod, 
Hunted  and  faint,  upon  Palestine's  sod ; 
Yet  shines  his  spirit  through  the  centuries'  night 
With  sun-bright  hope  and  light. 

And  still  the  child  knows  best  his  call  divine, 
And  fain  would  set  for  him  the  bread  and  wine ; 
But  voices  cold  are  calling  evermore, 
"  Child,  close  the  door  !  " 

Christian  Inquirer. 


286  LITTLE    WILLIE    WAKING    UP. 


LITTLE   WILLIE   WAKING   UP. 


Some  have  thought  that  in  the  dawning,  in  our  being's 
freshest  glow, 

God  is  nearer  little  children  than  their  parents  ever 
know ; 

And  that,  if  you  listen  sharply,  better  things  than  you 
can  teach, 

And  a  sort  of  mystic  wisdom  trickle  through  their  care- 
less speech. 

How  it  is  I  cannot  answer,  but  I  knew  a  little  child, 

Who,  among  the  thyme  and  clover  and  the  bees,  was 
running  wild  ; 

And  he  came  one  summer  evening  with  his  ringlets  o'er 
his  eyes, 

And  his  hat  was  torn  in  pieces  chasing  bees  and  butter- 
flies. 

"Now  I'll  go  to  bed,  deal  mother;   for  I'm  very  tired 

of  play  !  " 
And  he  Baid  hie  "Now  I  lay  me,"  in  a  kind  of  careless 

way  ; 
And  he  drank  the  cooling  water  from  his  little  silver 

•  ■up. 
And  said  gaily,  "  When  it's  morning,  will  the  angels 
lake  me  upf" 


LITTLE   WILLIE   WAKIXG   UP.  287 

Down  he  sank  with  roguish  laughter,  in  his  little  trun- 
dle bed, 

And  the  kindly  God  of  slumber  showered  the  poppies 
o'er  his  head. 

"  What  could  mean  his  speaking  strangely  ?  "  asked  his 
musing  mother  then  : 

R  Oh  !  'twas  nothing  but  his  prattle  !  —  what  can  he  of 
angels  ken  ?  " 

There  he  lies  how  sweet  and  placid !  and  his  breathing 

comes  and  goes 
Like  a  zephyr  moving  softly,  and  his  cheek  is  like  a  rose  ; 
But  she  leaned  her  ear  to  listen  if  his  breathing  could 

be  heard  : 
"Oh,"  she  murmured,  "if  the  angels  took  my  darling 

at  his  word  !  " 

Night  within  its  folding  mantle  hath  the  sleepers  both 

beguiled, 
And  within  its  soft  embracings  rest  the  mother  and  the 

child : 
Up  she  starteth  from  her  dreaming ;    for  a  sound  hath 

struck  her  ear,  — 
And  it  comes  from  little  Willie  lying  on  his  trundle  near. 

Up  she  springeth,  for  it  strikes  upon  her  troubled  ear 

again, 
And  his    breath,   in    louder  fetches,   travels  from   his 

lungs  in  pain ; 


288  THE    CHILD    OF   JAMES   MELVILLE. 

And  his  eyes  are  fixing  upward  on  some  face  beyond 

the  room  ; 
And  the  blackness  of  the  spoiler  from  his  cheek  hath 

chased  the  bloom. 

Never  more  his  "Now  I  lay  me"  will  be  said  from 
mother's  knee ; 

Never  more  among  the  clover  will  he  chase  the  humble- 
bee  : 

Through  the  night  she  watched  her  darling,  now  de- 
spairing, now  in  hope ; 

And  about  the  break  of  morning  did  the  angels  take 

him  up. 

Rev.  E.  H.  Sears. 


THE   CHILD   OF   JAMES   MELVILLE. 

"  This  page,  if  thou  be  a  pater  that  reads  it,  thou  wilt  apardone  me  ;  if  nocht,  sus- 
pend thy  censure  till  thou  be  a  father,  as  said  the  grave  Lacedaemonian,  Agesilaus.*'— 
Autobiography  of  James  Melville. 

One  time  my  soul  was  pierced  as  with  a  sword, 
Contending  still  with  men  untaught  and  wild, 

When  he  who  to  the  prophet  lent  his  gourd, 
Gave  me  the  solace  of  a  little  child  ! 

A  summer  gift,  my  precious  flower  was  given, 
A  very  summer  fragrance  was  its  life  ; 

Its  clear  eyes  soothed  me  as  the  blue  of  heaven, 
When  home  I  turned,  a  weary  man  of  strife  ! 


THE    CHILD    OF   JAMES   MELVILLE.  289 

With  unformed  laughter  musically  sweet, 

How  soon  the  wakening  babe  would  meet  my  kiss  ; 

With  outstretched  arms  its  careworn  father  greet ! 
Oh,  in  the  desert  what  a  spring  was  this  ! 

A  few  short  months  it  blossomed  near  my  heart, 
A  few  short  months,  else  toilsome  all,  and  sad  ! 

But  that  home-solace  nerved  me  for  my  part, 
And  of  the  babe  I  was  exceeding  glad. 

Alas  !  my  pretty  bud,  scarce  formed,  was  dying 
(The  prophet's  gourd  it  withered  in  a  night) ; 

And  He  who  gave  me  all,  my  heart's  pulse  trying, 
Took  gently  home  the  child  of  my  delight. 

Not  rudely  culled,  not  suddenly  it  perished, 

But  gradual  faded  from  our  love  away, 
As  if  still,  secret  dews,  its  life  that  cherished, 

Were  drop  by  drop  withheld,  and  day  by  day. 

My  gracious  Master  saved  me  from  repining, 

So  tenderly  he  sued  me  for  his  own  : 
So  beautiful  he  made  my  babe's  declining, 

Its  dying  blessed  me  as  its  birth  had  done. 

And  daily  to  my  board,  at  noon  and  even, 
Our  fading  flower  I  bade  its  mother  bring, 

That  we  might  commune  of  our  rest  in  heaven, 
Gazing  the  while  on  death  without  its  sting. 
19 


200  THE    CHILD    OF   JAMES    MELVILLE. 

And  of  the  ransom  for  that  baby  paid, 

So  very  sweet  at  times  our  converse  seemed, 

That  the  sure  truth  of  grief  a  gladness  made, 
Our  little  lamb  by  God's  own  Lamb  redeemed. 

There  were  two  milk-white  doves  my  wife  had  nourished, 
And  I  too  loved  erewhile  at  times  to  stand, 

Marking  how  each  the  other  fondly  cherished ; 
And  fed  them  from  my  baby's  dimpled  hand. 

So  tame  they  grew,  that,  to  his  cradle  flying, 
Full  oft  they  cooed  him  to  his  noontide  rest ; 

And,  to  the  murmurs  of  his  sleep  replying, 
Crept  gently  in,  and  nestled  in  his  breast. 

'Twas  a  fair  sight,  — the  snow-pale  infant  sleeping, 
So  fondly  guardianed  by  those  creatures  mild ; 

"Watch  o'er  his  closed  eyes  their  bright  eyes  keeping ; 
Wondrous  the  love  betwixt  the  birds  and  child . 

Still,  as  he  sickened,  seemed  the  doves  too  dwining, 
Forsook  their  food,  and  loathed  their  pretty  play  ; 

And  on  the  day  he  died,  with  sad  note  pining, 
One  gentle  bird  would  not  be  frayed  away. 

His  mother  found  it,  when  she  rose,  sad-hearted, 
At  early  dawn,  wirli  sense  of  nearing  ill ; 

And,  when  at  last  the  little  spirit  parted, 
The  dove  died  too,  as  if  of  its  heart-chill. 


"a  little  child  shall  lead  them."       291 

The  other  flew  to  meet  my  sad  home-riding, 

As  with  a  human  sorrow  in  its  coo  ; 
To  my  dead  child,  and  its  own  dead  mate  guiding 

Most  pitifully  plained,  — and  parted  too  ! 

'Twas  my  first  hansel  and  propine  to  heaven  ! 

And  as  I  laid  my  darling  'neath  the  sod, 
Precious  His  comforts,  — once  an  infant  given, 

And  offered  with  two  turtle-doves  to  God  ! 

Mrs.  A.  Stuart  Menteath. 


"A  LITTLE    CHILD    SHALL   LEAD   THEM." 

He  was  so  beautiful,  —  our  child  :  some  said 
That  he  would  grow  from  his  sweet  lilyhood, 
And  fill  a  wondrous  morn.     We  heard  and  smiled, 
Nor  thought  it  wonderful  that  such  might  be. 

God  gave  him  to  our  bosoms  in  the  spring ; 

When  May-time's  pinkest  shame  glowed  in  the  woods, 

God  gave, — blest  gift!  —  and   God,   too,    made  him 

lame. 
His  little  being  dawned  upon  and  flushed, 
With  warmer  hue,  the  apple  of  our  life  — 
Too  crude  —  less  tender  hitherto.     He  drew 
Our  hearts  to  his  ;  ours,  closer  than  before,  — 
Just  as  that  tiny,  silver  seam  in  fruit 
Knits  fast  a  double  core. 


292       "a  little  child  shall  lead  them." 

I  mind  me  once, 
We  carried  him,  at  sundown,  to  the  lawn  ; 
And  spread  a  gorgeous  shawl  upon  the  grass, 
With  oriental  cushions,  wide  and  soft, 
Tasselled  with  gold  and  'broidered  royally. 
We  fashioned  him  a  throne,  and  there  he  sat 
King  of  our  hearts  !   clapping  his  joyous  hands, 
And  tossing  dahlia-balls  in  greatest  ^lee. 

There  had  been  rain  that  day  ;   and,  in  the  west 

Just  where  the  sun  had  set,  a  brilliant  belt 

Of  rainbow  was  unrolled  ;  so  luminous, 

So  dyed  with  humid  tints,  it  seemed  to  lean 

And  yearn  towards  the  earth.     Our  boy  grew  still ; 

Its  glory  hushed  the  laughter  on  his  lips. 

His  blue  eyes  swam  with  earnestness,  as  lakes 

Swim  full  of  eresses.     ,f  Look  !  oh,  look  !  "  he  cried, 

f'  What  is  that  pretty  thing  that  shines  so  high  ?  " 

His  mother  bent  her  warm,  ripe  cheek  to  his, 
And  smilingly  related  how  'twas  set 
By  the  great  Father's  mighty  hand,  on  high  ; 
A  shining  ladder,  for  the  good  of  earth, 
Whereon  to  climb  toward  heaven. 

His  still  gaze  dwelt 
With  momentary  wonder  on  her  face ; 
But  then  the  gush  of  tender,  sunny  light 
Died  out  within  his  eyes.      His  little  lips 


TO-DAY  AND   TO-MORROW. 

O-DAY,  a  lisping  child,  with  hair  sun-golden, 
And  blue  of  summer  morning  in  his  eyes, 
And  cheeks  aglow  with  kisses  of  new  loving, 
Sees   old  things  new,  with  ignorant   sur- 
prise : 
To-morrow,  and  he  knows  the  songs  they  sing  in  Para* 
dise. 


To-day,  a  youth,  in  pride  of  early  manhood, 
With  light  of  far-off  hope  upon  his  brow, 

With  eager  expectation  of  the  coming, 

And  wild  impatience  of  the  loitering  now  : 
To-morrow,  lie  hath  touched  the  throne  at  which  all 


angels  bow. 


[303] 


304  ONLY  A  BABY'S  GRAVE. 

To-day,  an  old  man  lingers  in  his  sadness  ; 

Great  griefs  have  digged  deep  furrows  in  his  cheeks  ; 

A  cold  grave  with  the  long-ago  departed, 

In  stammering  words,  is  all  the  boon  he  seeks  : 

To-morrow,  with  unfaltering  lips  the  joy  of  heaven 

he  speaks. 

Christian  Inquirer. 


ONLY  A   BABY'S    GRAVE. 

Okly  a  baby's  grave  ! 

Some  foot  or  two,  at  the  most, 
Of  star-daisied  sod  ;  yet  I  think  that  God 
Knows  what  that  little  grave  cost. 

Only  a  baby's  grave  ! 

To  children  even  so  small, 
That  they  sit  there  and  sing,  —  so  small  a  thing 
Seems  scarcely  a  grave  at  all ! 

Only  a  baby's  grave  ! 

Strange  !  how  we  moan  and  fret 
For  a  little  face  that  was  here  such  a  space,  — 
Oh  more  strange,  could  we  forget ! 

Only  a  baby's  grave  ! 

Did  we  measure  grief  by  this, 

Few  tears  were  shed  on  our  baby  dead  : 

/know  how  they  fell  on  this. 


OUK   BABY.  305 

Only  a  baby's  grave  ! 

Will  the  little  life  be  much 
Too  small  a  gem  for  His  diadem 

Whose  kingdom  is  made  of  such? 

Only  a  baby's  grave  ! 

Yet  often  we  come  and  sit 

By  the  little  stone,  and  thank  God  to  own 

We  are  nearer  heaven  for  it ! 

Good  Words. 


OUR    BABY. 

To-day  we  cut  the  fragrant  sod, 

With  trembling  hands,  asunder, 
And  lay  this  well-beloved  of  God, 

Our  dear  dead  baby,  under. 
Oh  hearts  that  ache,  and  ache  afresh  ! 

Oh  tears  too  blindly  raining  ! 
Our  hearts  are  weak,  yet,  being  flesh, 

Too  strong  for  our  restraining  ! 

Sleep,  darling,  sleep  !     Cold  rains  shall  steep 

Thy  little  turf-made  dwelling  ; 
Thou  wilt  not  know  —  so  far  below  — 

What  winds  or  storms  are  swelling ; 
20 


30G  BENOXI. 

And  birds  shall  sing,  in  the  warm  spring, 
And  flowers  bloom  about  thee  : 

Thou  wilt  not  heed  them,  love,  but  oh 
The  loneliness  without  thee  ! 

Father,  we  will  be  comforted  ! 

Thou  wast  the  gracious  Giver  : 
We  yield  her  up  —  not  dead,  not  dead  — 

To  dwell  with  thee  for  ever  ! 
Take  thou  our  child  !  ours  for  a  day, 

Thine  while  the  ages  blossom  ! 
This  little  shining  head  we  lay 

In  the  Redeemer's  bosom  ! 


BENONI. 


Sweet  earth,  that  holds  my  brightest  prize  ! 
Be  wept  upon  by  gentle  skies. 

Blest  grave  that  keeps  the  lovely  thing ! 
"  From  his  sweet  dust  let  violets  spring." 

Dear  winds,  that  sweep  the  tiny  bed  ! 
Breathe  lulling  music  o'er  his  head. 

Hush  thy  wild  voice  of  fear,  great  storm  ! 
Fright  not  the  little  sleeping  form. 


BEXOXI.  307 

Beat  not  the  turf  to  cause  him  pain  : 
Weep  quiet  tears,  soft  summer  rain  ! 

"Weave  thou  a  fairy  shroud,  dear  snow  ! 
For  the  bright  flower  that  sleeps  below. 

Drop  richly  here,  sweet  sunset  light ! 
And  dress  my  boy  in  raiment  bright. 

Green  leaves  !  make  whisper  o'er  his  rest, 
And  soothe  his  dreams  on  earth's  cold  breast. 

O  gentle  water,  running  near  ! 
Murmur  sweet  comfort  to  his  ear. 

Build  here  thy  nest,  O  ringdove  mild  ! 
Talk  softly  to  my  lonely  child : 

Dear  dove,  make,  too,  a  plaintive  moan, 
For  the  sad  mother  left  alone. 

O  white-winged  angels  !  softly  bear 
My  darling  up  heaven's  golden  stair. 

Dear  God,  who  lovest  the  little  child  ! 
Take  to  thyself  my  undefiled. 

Sweet  Christ,  who  hearest  the  widow's  cry  ! 
Make  haste  to  hear  me,  lest  I  die. 

Chambers's  Journal. 


308  BABY  LOOKING   OUT  FOR  ME. 


BABY   LOOKING  OUT   FOR  ME. 

Two  little  busy  hands  patting  on  the  window, 
Two  laughing  bright  eyes  looking  out  at  me ; 

Two  rosy-red  cheeks  dented  with  a  dimple ; 
Mother-bird  is  coming ;  baby,  do  you  see  ? 

Down  by  the  lilac-bush,  something  white  and  azure 
Saw  I  in  the  window  as  I  passed  the  tree ; 

Well  I  knew  the  apron,  and  shoulder-knots  of  ribbon, 
All  belonged  to  baby,  looking  out  for  me. 

Talking  low  and  tenderly 

To  myself,  as  mothers  will, 
Spake  I  softly,  R  God  in  heaven, 

Keep  my  darling  free  from  ill. 
Worldly  gear  and  worldly  honors 

Ask  I  not  for  her  from  thee ; 
But  from  want  and  sin  and  sorrow, 

Keep  her  ever  pure  and  free." 


Two  little  waxen  hands, 
Folded  soft  and  silently ; 

Two  little  curtained  eyes 

Looking  out  no  more  for  me ; 

Two  little  snowy  checks, 
Dimple-dented  nevermore ; 


BABY   LOOKING   OUT   FOR   ME.  309 

Two  little  trodden  shoes, 

That  will  never  touch  the  floor ; 
Shoulder-ribbon  softly  twisted, 

Apron  folded,  clean  and  white  ; 
These  are  left  me,  — and  these  only,  — 

Of  the  childish  presence  bright. 

Thus  He  sent  an  answer  to  my  earnest  praying ; 

Thus  he  keeps  my  darling  free  from  earthly  stain ; 
Thus  he  folds  the  pet  lamb  safe  from  earthly  straying,  — 

But  I  miss  her  sadly  by  the  window  pane, 
Till  I  look  above  it :  then,  with  purer  vision, 

Sad,  I  weep  no  longer  the  lilac-bush  to  pass  ; 
For  I  see  her  angel,  pure  and  white  and  sinless, 

Walking  with  the  harpers,  by  the  Sea  of  Glass. 

Two  little  snowy  wings 

Softly  flutter  to  and  fro ; 
Two  tiny  childish  hands 

Beckon  still  to  me  below ; 
Two  tender  angel  eyes 

Watch  me  ever  earnestly 

Through  the  loop-holes  of  the  stars  : 

Baby's  looking  out  for  me. 

Ethel  Lynx. 


310  CHARLIE. 


CHARLIE. 


O  little  presence  !  everywhere 

We  find  some  touching  trace  of  thee,  — 
A  pencil-mark  upon  the  wall, 

That  "  naughty  hands  "  made  thoughtlessly  ; 
And  broken  toys  around  the  house,  — 

Where  he  has  left  them  they  have  lain, 
Waiting  for  little  busy  hands 

That  will  not  come  again,  — 

Will  never  come  again  ! 

Within  the  shrouded  room  below 
He  lies  a-cold  ;  and  yet  we  know 

It  is  not  Charlie  there  ! 
It  is  not  Charlie,  cold  and  white  ; 
It  is  the  robe,  that,  in  his  flight, 

He  gently  cast  aside  ! 

Our  darling  hath  not  died  ! 

O  rare  pale  lips  !     O  clouded  eyes  ! 

O  violet  eyes  grown  dim  ! 
Ah,  well,  this  little  lock  of  hair 

Is  all  of  him  !  — 
Is  all  of  him  that  we  can  keep 

For  loving  kisses  ;  and  the  thought 
Of  him  and  death  may  teach  us  more 

Than  all  our  life  hath  taught ! 


"a  little  child  shall  lead  them."      293 

Quivered  piteously  ;  he  tore  his  hands 

Away  from  hers,  himself  face-downward  flung, 

In  sudden  gust  of  childish  agony. 

"/cannot  climb  to  heaven  !  "  he  sobbed ;  and  then, 

"I  cannot  climb,  because  —  because  Tin  lame!" 

O  child  !  O  little,  sinless  one  !  our  hearts 

Could  have  bowed  down  in  very  reverence, 

And  kissed  thy  hands,  — those  slender  hands  that  bore 

His  rod,  and  smote  us,  gently,  it  is  true, 

But  with  a  world  of  pain  !      Thou  couldst  not  climb,  — 

And  thy  sweet  spirit  winged  with  purity  ! 

Oh  then,  dear  child,  what  chance  have  we?  our  souls 

Are  crippled  so,  with  malice,  wickedness, 

And  all  uncharitableness.      Sweet  Christ, 

Have  mercy  on  our  sad  deformities  ! 

Ah  !  when  our  little  one  was  ta'en,  we  looked, 

My  wife  and  I,  into  each  other's  eyes  : 

Our  hands  close-clasped,  our  faces  dript  with  tears, 

We  said,  each  unto  each,  "Fear  not; "  because 

"We  knew  that  the  Good  Shepherd  careth  well 

For  his  wee  flock.     And  when  one  lamb  is  weak. 

Or  weary-limbed,  he  takes  it  in  his  arms, 

And  carries  it. 

2-Leeta 


2(J  t  THE   SCHOOL. 


THE    SCHOOL. 

"Little  girl,  where  do  you  go  to  school, 

And  when  do  you  go,  little  girl? 
Over  the  grass,  from  dawn  till  dark, 

Your  feet  are  in  a  whirl  : 
You  and  the  cat  jump  here  and  there, 

You  and  the  robins  sing  ; 
But  what  do  you  know  in  the  spelling  book? 

Have  you  ever  learned  any  thing  ?  " 

Thus  the  little  girl  answered,  — 

Only  stopping  to  cling 
To  my  finger  a  minute, 

As  a  bird  on  the  wing 
Catches  a  twig  of  sumach, 

And  stops  to  twitter  and  swing,  — 

"  When  the  daisies'  eyes  are  a-twinkle 

"With  happy  tears  of  dew  ; 
When  swallows  waken  in  the  eaves, 

And  the  lamb  bleats  to  the  ewe  ; 
When  the  lawns  are  golden-barred, 

And  the  kiss  of  the  wind  is  cool ; 
When  Morning's  breath  blows  out  the  stars, — 

Then  do  I  go  to  school ! 


THE    LITTLE    PEOPLE.  295 

My  school-roof  is  the  dappled  sky  : 
And  the  bells  that  ring  for  me  there 

Are  all  the  voices  of  morning 
Afloat  in  the  dewy  ah*. 

Kind  Nature  is  the  Madame ; 
And  the  book  whereout  I  spell 

Is  dog's-eared  by  the  brooks  and  glens 


Where  I  know  the  lesson  well." 

Thus  the  little  girl  answered, 

In  her  musical,  out-door  tone  : 
She  was  up  to  my  pocket, 

I  was  a  man  full  grown  : 

But,  the  next  time  that  she  goes  to  school, 

She  will  not  go  alone  ! 

Fitz  Hugh  Ludlow. 


THE   LITTLE   PEOPLE. 

A  dreary  place  would  be  this  earth, 
Were  there  no  little  people  in  it : 

The  song  of  life  would  lose  its  mirth, 
Were  there  no  children  to  begin  it ; 

No  little  forms,  like  buds  to  grow, 

And  make  the  admiring  heart  surrender ; 

Xo  little  hands  on  breast  and  brow, 

To  keep  the  thrilling  love-chords  tender. 


296  THE    LITTLE    PEOPLE. 

No  babe  within  our  arms  to  leap  ; 

No  little  feet  toward  slumber  tending; 
No  little  knee  in  prayer  to  bend, 

Our  lips  the  sweet  words  lending. 

What  would  the  mothers  do  for  work, 
"Were  there  no  pants  or  jackets  tearing? 

No  tiny  dresses  to  embroider  ? 

No  cradle  for  their  watchful  caring? 

No  rosy  boys,  at  wintry  morn, 

With  satchel  to  the  schoolhouse  hasting ; 
No  merry  shouts  as  home  they  rush ; 

No  precious  morsel  for  their  tasting  : 

Tall,  grave,  grown  people  at  the  door, 
Tall,  grave,  grown  people  at  the  table  ; 

The  men  on  business  all  intent, 

The  dames  lugubrious  as  they're  able. 

The  sterner  souls  would  grow  more  stern, 
Unfeeling  natures  more  inhuman, 

And  man  to  stoic  coldness  turn, 

And  woman  would  be  less  than  woman. 

For  in  that  clime  toward  which  we  reach, 
Through  Time's  mysterious,  dim  unfolding, 

The  little  ones  with  cherub  smile 

Are  still  our  Father's  face  beholding. 


A    PARABLE.  297 

So  said  His  voice  in  whom  we  trust, 
When,  in  Judea's  realm  a  preacher, 

He  made  a  child  confront  the  proud, 
And  be  in  simple  guise  their  teacher. 

Life's  song,  indeed,  would  lose  its  charm, 

"Were  there  no  babies  to  begin  it ; 
A  doleful  place  this  world  would  be, 

"Were  there  no  little  people  in  it. 


A    PARABLE. 

"Worn  and  footsore  was  the  prophet, 
When  he  gained  the  holy  hill  : 

n  God  has  left  the  earth,"  he  murmured ; 
"Here  his  presence  lingers  still. 

God  of  all  the  olden  prophets, 

Wilt  thou  speak  with  men  no  more  ? 

Have  I  not  as  truly  served  thee, 
As  thy  chosen  ones  of  yore? 

Hear  me,  Guider  of  my  fathers  ! 

Lo  !  a  humble  heart  is  mine  ; 
By  thy  mercy,  I  beseech  thee, 

Grant  thy  servant  but  a  sign  !  " 


298  A   PARABLE. 

Bowing  then  his  head,  he  listened 
For  an  answer  to  his  prayer  ; 

No  loud  burst  of  thunder  followed, 
Not  a  murmur  stirred  the  air  : 

But  the  tuft  of  moss  before  him 
Opened  while  he  waited  yet, 

And  from  out  the  rock's  hard  bosom 
Sprang  a  tender  violet. 

"  God  !  I  thank  thee,"  said  the  prophet ; 

Hard  of  heart,  and  blind  was  I, 
Looking  to  the  holy  mountain 

For  the  gift  of  prophecy. 

Still  thou  speakest  with  thy  children 

Freely  as  in  eld  sublime ; 
Humbleness  and  love  and  patience 

Still  give  empire  over  time. 

Had  I  trusted  in  my  nature, 
And  had  faith  in  lowly  things, 

Thou  thyself  wouldst  then  have  sought  me, 
And  set  free  my  spirit's  wings. 

But  I  looked  for  signs  and  wonders, 
That  o'er  men  should  give  me  sway  ; 

Thirsting  to  be  more  than  mortal, 
I  was  even  less  than  clay. 


THE    RECONCILIATION.  299 

Ere  I  entered  on  my  journey, 

As  I  girt  my  loins  to  start, 
Ean  to  me  my  little  daughter, 

The  beloved  of  my  heart. 

In  her  hand  she  held  a  flower, 

Like  to  this  as  like  may  be, 
Which,  beside  my  very  threshold, 

She  had  plucked,  and  brought  to  me/' 

J.  R.  Lowell. 


THE   RECONCILIATION. 

As  through  the  land  at  eve  we  went, 
And  plucked  the  ripened  ears, 

"We  fell  out,  my  wife  and  I ; 

Oh,  we  fell  out,  I  know  not  why, 
And  kissed  again  with  tears. 

For,  when  we  came  where  lies  the  child 

We  lost  in  other  years, 
There,  above  the  little  grave, 
Oh  there,  above  the  little  grave, 


We  kissed  again  with  tears, 


A.  Texxtsox. 


311 


God,  walking  over  starry  spheres, 

Did  clasp  his  tiny  hand, 
And  led  him,  through  a  fall  of  tears, 

Into  the  mystic  land  ! 

Angel  of  death  !  we  question  not : 

Who  asks  of  heaven,  "Why  does  it  rain?" 
Angel,  we  bless  thee  !  for  thy  kiss 

Hath  hushed  the  lips  of  pain  ! 
No  "  Wherefore  ?  "  or  "  To  what  good  end  ?  " 

Shall  out  of  doubt  and  anguish  creep 
Into  our  thought.     We  bow  our  heads  : 

He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep! 


T.  B.  Aldrich. 


FOR   CHARLIE'S   SAKE. 

C.  D.  P.  OB.  OCT.  28,  1861. 

The  night  is  late,  the  house  is  still ; 
The  angels  of  the  hour  fulfil 
Their  tender  ministries,  and  move 
From  couch  to  couch  in  cares  of  love : 
They  drop  into  thy  dreams,  sweet  wife, 
The  happiest  smile  of  Charlie's  life, 
And  lay  on  Baby's  lips  a  kiss 
Fresh  from  his  angel-brother's  bliss ; 


312  for  Charlie's  sake. 

And,  as  they  pass,  they  seem  to  make 

A  strange,  dim  hymn,  "For  Charlie's  sake. 

My  listening  heart  takes  up  the  strain, 
And  gives  it  to  the  night  again, 
Filled  with  words  of  lowly  praise, 
And  patience  learned  by  mournful  days, 
And  memories  of  the  dead  child's  ways. 
His  will  be  done,. —  His  will  be  done, 
Who  gave  and  took  away  my  son, 
In  the  "  far  land  "  to  shine  and  sing 
Before  the  Beautiful,  the  King 
Who  every  day  doth  Christmas  make, 
All  starred  and  belled  for  Charlie's  sake. 

For  Charlie's  sake  I  will  arise ; 

I  will  anoint  me  where  he  lies, 

And  change  my  raiment,  and  go  in 

To  the  Lord's  home,  and  leave  my  sin 

Without,  and  seat  me  at  his  board, 

Eat,  and  be  glad,  and  praise  the  Lord. 

For  wherefore  should  I  fast  and  weep, 

And  sullen  moods  of  murmuring  keep  ? 

I  cannot  bring  him  back,  nor  he, 

For  any  calling,  come  to  me. 

The  bond  the  angel  Death  did  sign 

God  sealed  —  for  Charlie's  sake,  and  mine. 

I'm  very  poor  :  his  Blender  stone 
Makes  all  the  narrow  field  I  own  ; 


313 


Yet,  patient  husbandman,  I  till 

AVith  faith  and  prayers,  that  precious  hill ; 

Sow  it  with  penitential  pains, 

And  hopeful  wait  the  latter  rains  : 

Content  if,  after  all,  the  spot 

Yield  barely  one  forget-me-not ; 

Whether  or  figs  or  thistles  make 

My  crop,  content  for  Charlie's  sake. 

I  have  no  houses  builded  well, 

Only  that  little  lonesome  cell 

"Where  never  romping  playmates  come, 

Nor  bashful  sweethearts,  cunning  —  dumb, 

An  April  burst  of  girls  and  boys 

Their  rainbowed  cloud  of  glooms  and  joys, 

Bora  with  their  songs,  gone  with  their  toys  : 

Nor  ever  in  its  stillness  stirred 

By  purr  of  cat,  or  chirp  of  bird, 

Or  mother's  twilight  legend,  told 

Of  Homer's  pie  or  Tiddler's  gold, 

Or  Fairy,  hobbling  to  the  door, 

Red-cloaked  and  weird  and  banned  and  poor, 

To  bless  the  good  child's  gracious  eyes, 

The  good  child's  wistful  charities, 

And  crippled  changeling's  hunch  to  make 

Dance  on  his  crutch  for  good  child's  sake. 

How  is  it  with  the  child  ?     'Tis  well ; 
Nor  would  I  any  miracle 


314  THE   LENT   JEWELS. 

Might  stir  my  sleeper's  tranquil  trance, 

Or  plague  his  painless  countenance  : 

I  would  not  any  seer  might  place 

His  staff  on  my  immortal's  face  ; 

Or  lip  to  lip,  and  eye  to  eye, 

Claim  back  his  pale  mortality. 

No,  Shunamite  !  I  would  not  break 

God's  stillness.     Let  them  weep  who  wake. 

For  Charlie's  sake,  my  lot  is  blest : 
No  comfort  like  his  mother's  breast, 
No  praise  like  hers  ;  no  charm  expressed 
In  fairest  forms  hath  half  her  zest. 
For  Charlie's  sake,  this  bird's  caressed 
That  death  left  lonely  in  the  nest ; 
For  Charlie's  sake,  my  heart  is  dressed, 
As  for  its  birthday,  in  its  best ; 
For  Charlie's  sake,  we  leave  the  rest 
To  Him  who  gave,  and  who  did  take, 
And  saved  us  twice,  for  Charlie's  sake. 

New-York  Tribune. 


THE    LENT    JEWELS. 

A   JEWISH   TALE. 

In  schools  of  wisdom  all  the  day  was  spent 
His  steps  at  eve  the  Rabbi  homeward  bent, 


THE    LEXT    JEWELS.  315 

'With    homeward   thoughts    which    dwelt    upon    the 

wife, 
And  two  fair  children  who  consoled  his  life  : 
She,  meeting  at  the  threshold,  led  him  in  ; 
And,  with  the  words  preventing,  did  begin,  — 
"Ever  rejoicing  at  your  wished  return, 
Yet  do  I  most  so  now ;  for,  since  this  morn, 
I  have  been  much  perplexed  and  sorely  tried 
Upon  one  point  which  you  shall  now  decide  : 
Some  years  ago,  a  friend  into  my  care 
Some  jewels  gave,  rich,  precious  gems  they  were ; 
But,  having  given  them  in  my  charge,  this  friend 
Did  afterward  nor  come  for  them  nor  send, 
But  left  them  in  my  keeping  for  so  long, 
That  now  it  almost  seems  to  me  a  wrong 
That  he  should  suddenly  arrive  to-day 
To  take  those  jewels,  which  he  left,  away. 
"What  think  you?     Shall  I  freely  yield  them  back, 
And  with  no  murmuring,  —  so  henceforth  to  lack 
Those  gems  myself,  which  I  had  learned  to  see 
Almost  as  mine  for  ever,  mine  in  fee?  " 

"  What    question    can   be   here  ?      Your    own   true 

heart 
Must  needs  advise  you  of  the  only  part. 
That  may  be  claimed  again  which  was  but  lent, 
And  should  be  yielded  with  no  discontent ; 
Nor  surely  can  we  find  herein  a  wrong, 
That  it  was  left  us  to  enjoy  it  long." 


316  OUR   LITTLE    CHILD. 

"  Good  is  the  word,"  she  answered.     "May  we  now 

And  evermore  that  it  is  good  allow  ! " 

And,  rising,  to  an  inner  chamber  led, 

And  there  she  showed  him,  stretched  upon  one  bed, 

Two  children  pale  ;   and  lie  the  jewels  knew 

Which  God  had  lent  him  and  resumed  anew. 

R.   M.   MlLNES. 


OUR   LITTLE    CHILD   WITH   RADIANT   EYES. 

With  seeking  hearts  we  still  grope  on, 
Where  dropt  our  jewel  in  the  dust  : 

The  looking  crowd  have  long  since  gone, 
And  still  we  seek  with  lonely  trust  : 
O  little  child  with  radiant  eyes  ! 

In  all  our  heart-ache  we  are  drawn, 

Unwecting,  to  your  little  grave  ; 
There,  on  your  heavenly  shores  of  dawn, 

Breaks  gentler  sorrow's  sobbing  wave  : 
O  little  child  with  radiant  eyes  ! 

Dark  underneath  the  brightening  sod, 

The  sweetest  life  of  all  our  years 
I>  crowded  in  a  gift  to  God. 

Outside  the  gate  we  stand  in  tears  ! 

O  little  child  with  radiant  eyes  ! 


OUR   LITTLE    CHILD.  317 

Heart-empty  as  the  acorn-cup 

That  only  fills  with  wintry  showers, 
The  breaking  cloud  but  brinimeth  up 

"With  tears  this  pleading  life  of  ours. 
O  little  child  with  radiant  eyes  ! 

"We  think  of  you,  our  angel  kith, 

Till  life  grows  light  with  starry  leaven  : 

"We  never  forget  you,  darling,  with 
The  gold  hair  waving  high  in  heaven  ! 
Our  little  child  with  radiant  eyes  ! 

Your  white  wings  grown  will  conquer  death  ! 

You  are  coming  through  our  dreams  even  now, 
With  azure  peep  of  heaven  beneath 

The  arching  glorv  of  vour  brow,  — 
Our  little  child  with  radiant  eyes  ! 

"We  cannot  pierce  the  dark,  but  oft 

You  see  us  with  looks  of  pitying  balm  ; 

A  hint  of  heaven,  —  a  touch  more  soft 
Than  kisses,  — all  the  trouble  is  calm. 
Our  little  child  with  radiant  eyes  ! 

Think  of  us  wearied  in  the  strife ; 

And,  when  we  sit  by  sorrow's  streams, 
Shake  down  upon  our  drooping  life 
The  dew  that  brings  immortal  dreams. 
Our  little  child  with  radiant  eyes  ! 

Gerald  Masse r. 


318  THE   NOBLE   NATURE. 


THE    CHILD-ANGEL. 

With  what  unknown  delight  the  mother  smiled, 
When  this  frail  treasure  in  her  arms  she  pressed  ! 

Her  prayer  was  heard,  —  she  clasped  a  living  child,  — 
But  how  the  gift  transcends  the  poor  request ! 

A  child  was  all  she  asked,  with  many  a  vow ; 

Mother,  behold  the  child  an  angel  now  ! 

Now  in  her  Father's  house  she  finds  a  place ; 

Or,  if  to  earth  she  take  a  transient  flight, 
'Tis  to  fulfil  the  purpose  of  his  grace, 

To  guide  thy  footsteps  to  the  world  of  light ;  — 
A  ministering  spirit  sent  to  thee, 
That  where  she  is,  there  thou  mayst  also  be. 

Jane  Taylor. 


THE   NOBLE   NATURE. 

It  is  not  growing,  like  a  tree 
In  bulk,  doth  make  man  better  be  ; 
Or  standing  like  an  oak  three  hundred  year, 
To  fall  a  log  at  last,  dry,  bald,  and  sere  : 
A  lily  of  a  day 
Is  fairer  far  in  May. 
Although  it  fall  and  die  that  night,  — 
It  was  the  plant  and  flower  of  Light. 
In  small  proportions  we  just  beauty  see ; 
And  in  short  measures  life  may  perfect  be. 

Ben  Jonson. 


A   PETITION   TO   TIME. 


OUCH  us  gently,  Time  ! 

Let  us  glide  adown  thy  stream 
Gently,  —  as  we  sometimes  glide 
Through  a  quiet  dream. 
Humble  voyagers  are  we  : 
Husband,  wife,  and  children  three  ; 
(One  is  lost,  —  an  angel,  fled 
To  the  azure  overhead  !) 


Touch  us  gently,  Time  ! 

"We've  not  proud  nor  soaring  wings  : 
Our  ambition,  our  content, 

Lies  in  simple  things. 
21  [321] 


322  we  two. 


Humble  voyagers  are  we, 
O'er  life's  dim,  unsounded  sea, 
Seeking  only  some  calm  clime : 
Touch  us  gently,  gentle  Time  ! 

B.  W.  Proctob 


WE    TWO. 


We  own  no  houses,  no  lots,  no  lands, 

No  dainty  viands  for  us  are  spread ; 
By  sweat  of  our  brows  and  toil  of  our  hands 

We  earn  the  pittance  that  buys  our  bread. 
And  vet  we  live  in  a  grander  state,  — 

Sunbeam  and  I,  —  than  the  millionaires 
Who  dine  off  silver  and  golden  plate, 

With  liveried  lacqueys  behind  the  chairs. 

We  have  no  riches  in  houses  or  stocks, 

No  bank-books  show  our  balance  to  draw  ; 
Yet  we  carry  a  safe-key  that  unlocks 

More  treasure  than  Croesus  ever  saw. 
We  wear  no  velvet  nor  satin  fine, 

We  dress  in  a  very  homely  way  ; 
But,  ah  !  what  luminous  lustres  shine 

About  Sunbeam's  gowns  and  my  hodden  gray. 

When  we  walk  together  (we  do  not  ride, 
We  are  far  too  poor),  it  is  very  rare 


we  two.  323 

We  are  bowed  unto  from  the  other  side 

Of  the  street,  — but  for  this  we  do  not  care  : 

We  are  not  lonely,  we  pass  along, 

Sunbeam  and  I ;  and  you  cannot  see  — 

We  can  —  what  tall  and  beautiful  throngs 
Of  angels  we  have  for  company. 

No  harp,  no  dulcimer,  no  guitar, 

Breaks  into  music  at  Sunbeam's  touch ; 
But  do  not  think  that  our  evenings  are 

Without  their  music  :  there  is  none  such 
In  the  concert  halls,  where  the  palpitant  air 

In  musical  billows  floats  and  swims  ; 
Our  lives  are  as  psalms,  and  our  foreheads  wear 

A  calm,  like  the  peal  of  beautiful  hymns. 

When  cloudy  weather  obscures  our  skies, 

And  some  days  darken  with  drops  of  rain, 
We  have  but  to  look  in  each  other's  eyes, 

And  all  is  balmy  and  bright  again. 
Ah  !  ours  is  the  alchemy  that  transmutes 

The  drugs  to  elixir,  —  the  dross  to  gold  ; 
And  so  we  live  on  Hesperian  fruits, 

Sunbeam  and  I,  and  never  grow  old  : 

Never  grow  old,  but  we  live  in  peace, 

And  love  our  fellows  and  envy  none  ; 
And  our  hearts  are  glad  at  the  large  increase 

Of  plentiful  virtues  under  the  sun. 


324  SONG   AND    SILENCE. 

And  the  clays  pass  on  with  their  thoughtful  tread, 
And  the  shadows  lengthen  toward  the  west ; 

But  the  wane  of  our  young  years  brings  no  dread 
To  break  their  harvest  of  quiet  rest. 

Sunbeam's  hair  will  be  streaked  with  gray, 

And  time  wTill  furrow  my  darling's  brow ; 
But  never  can  Time's  hand  steal  away 

The  tender  halo  that  clasps  it  now. 
So  we  dwell  in  wonderful  opulence, 

With  nothing  to  hurt  us  or  upbraid ; 
And  my  life  trembles  with  reverence, 

And  Sunbeam's  spirit  is  not  afraid. 

Clarence  Bdtleb. 


SONG  AND   SILENCE. 

"  My  Mabel,  you  once  had  a  bird 
In  your  throat,  and  it  sang  all  day ; 
But  now  it  sings  never  a  word  : 
Has  the  bird  flown  away? 

O  sing  to  me,  Mabel,  again ! 
Strike  the  chords  !     Let  the  old  fountain  flow 
With  its  balm  for  my  fever  and  pain, 
As  it  did  years  ago  !  " 


SOXG   ^T)    SILEXCE.  325 

Mabel  sighed  (while  a  tear  filled  and  fell), 
w  I  have  bade  all  my  singing  adieu ; 
But  I've  a  true  story  to  tell, 
And  I'll  tell  it  to  you. 

There's  a  bird's  nest  up  there,  in  the  oak. 
On  the  bough  that  hangs  over  the  stream  ; 
And  last  night  the  mother-bird  broke 
Into  song  in  her  dream. 

This  morning  she  woke,  and  was  still : 
For  the  thought  of  the  frail  little  things 
That  needed  her  motherly  bill, 
Waiting  under  her  wings. 

And  busily,  all  the  day  long, 
She  hunted  and  carried  their  food. 
And  forgot  both  herself  and  her  song 
In  her  care  for  her  brood. 

I  sang  in  my  dream,  and  you  heard ; 

I  woke,  and  you  wonder  I'm  still : 

But  a  mother  is  always  a  bird 

With  a  fly  in  its*  bill !  " 

De.  J.  G.  Holland. 


326  THE    OLD   MAN'S    DREAMS. 


THE   OLD   MAN'S   DREAMS. 

Oh  for  one  hour  of  youthful  joy ! 

Give  back  my  twentieth  spring ! 
I'd  rather  laugh  a  bright-haired  boy 

Than  reign  a  gray-beard  king  ! 

Off  with  the  wrinkled  spoils  of  age  ! 

Away  with  learning's  crown  ! 
Tear  out  life's  wisdom-written  page, 

And  dash  its  trophies  down  ! 

One  moment  let  my  life-blood  stream 
From  boyhood's  fount  of  flame  ! 

Give  me  one  giddy,  reeling  dream 
Of  life,  all  love  and  fame  ! 

My  listening  angel  heard  the  prayer, 

And  calmlv  smiling  said, 
"  If  I  but  touch  thy  silvered  hair, 

Thy  hasty  wish  hath  sped. 

But  is  there  nothing  in  thy  track 
To  bid  thee  fondly  stay, 

AVhile  the  swift  seasons  hurry  back 
To  find  the  wished-for  day  ?  " 


THE    OLD   HA2s'S   DREAMS.  32 

Ah  truest  soul  of  womankind  ! 

Without  thee,  -what  were  life? 
One  bliss  I  cannot  leave  behind : 

I'll  take  —  my  —  precious  —  wife  ! 

The  angel  took  a  sapphire  pen, 

And  wrote  in  rainbow  dew, 
"The  man  would  be  a  boy  again, 

And  be  a  husband  too  ! 

And  is  there  nothing  yet  unsaid 

Before  the  change  appears  ? 
Remember,  all  their  gifts  have  fled 

With  those  dissolving  years  !  " 

Why,  yes  ;  for  memory  would  recall 

My  fond  paternal  joys  : 
I  could  not  bear  to  leave  them  all ; 

I'll  take  —  my  —  girl  —  and  —  boys  ! 

The  smiling  angel  dropped  his  pen,  — 

"  Why  this  will  never  do  ; 
The  man  would  be  a  boy  again, 

And  be  a  father  too  !  " 

And  so  I  laughed,  —  my  laughter  woke 

The  household  with  its  noise,  — 
And  wrote  my  dream,  when  morning  broke, 

To  please  the  gray-haired  boys. 

Dr.  O.  W.  Holmes. 


328  a  mother's  thoughts. 


A  MOTHER'S   THOUGHTS. 

Silent  and  lone,  silent  and  lone ! 

Where,  tell  me  where  are  my  little  ones  gone, 

That  used  to  be  playing  about  my  knee, 

With  their  noisy  mirth  and  boisterous  glee  ? 

Who  littered  the  carpets  and  misplaced  the  chairs, 

And  scattered  their  playthings  all  unawares  ; 

Who  called  for  their  suppers  with  eager  shout, 

And,  while  they  were  getting,  ran  in  and  out ; 

Who  kept  all  the  apples  and  nuts  from  spoiling, 

And  never  saved  jackets  nor  pants  from  soiling ; 

Had  ever  a  want  and  ever  a  will 

That  added  a  care  to  my  heart,  until 

I  sometimes  sighed  for  the  time  to  come, 

When  they'd  all  be  grown  and  go  out  from  home. 

Silent  and  lone,  silent  and  lone  ! 

Where,  tell  me  where  are  my  little  ones  gone? 

There  are  no  little  faces  to  wash  to-night, 

No  little  troubles  for  mother  to  right, 

No  little  blue  eyes  to  be  sung  to  sleep, 

No  little  playthings  to  put  up  to  keep, 

No  little  garments  to  be  hung  on  the  rack, 

No  little  tales  to  tell,  no  nuts  to  crack, 

No  little  trundle-bed,  brimful  of  rollic, 

Calling  for  mamma  to  settle  the  frolic, 


a  mother's  thoughts.  329 

Xo  little  soft  lips  to  press  me  with  kisses,  — 

(Oh,  such  a  sad,  lonely  evening  as  this  is  !) 

No  little  voices  to  shout  with  delight, 

"Good  night,  dear  mamma,  good  night,  good  night." 

Silent  the  house  is  ;  no  little  ones  here 

To  startle  a  smile,  or  chase  back  a  tear. 

Silent  and  lone,  silent  and  lone  ! 
Where,  tell  me  where  are  my  little. ones  gone? 
It  seemeth  but  yesterday  since  thev  were  voun^ ; 
Xow  they  are  all  scattered,  the  world's  paths  among  : 
Out  where  the  great  rolling  trade-stream  is  flowing ;  * 
Out  where  new  firesides  with  love-lights  are  glowing  ;■ 
Out  where  the  graves  of  their  life-hopes  are  sleep- 
ing, 
Not  to  be  comforted,  —  weeping,  still  weeping; 
Out  where  the  high  hills  of  science  are  blending 
Up  'mid  the  cloud-rifts,  up,  up,  still  ascending, 
Seeking  the  sunshine  that  rests  on  the  mountain, 
Drinking  and  thirsting  still,  still  at  the  fountain  ; 
Out  in  life's  thoroughfares  all  of  them  moiling ; 
Out  in  the  wide,  wide  world,  striving  and  toiling. 
Little  ones,  loving  ones,  playful  ones,  all, 
That  went  when  I  bade,  and  came  at  my  call, 
Have  ye  deserted  me  ?     Will  ye  not  come 
Back  to  your  mother's  arms,  — back  to  the  home  ! 

Silent  and  lone,  silent  and  lone  ! 

Where,  tell  me  where  are  my  little  ones  gone? 


330  OLD    FOLKS. 

Useless  my  cry  is.     Why  do  I  complain? 

They'll  be  my  little  ones  never  again  ! 

Can  the  great  oaks  to  the  acorns  return? 

The  broad  rolling  stream  flow  back  to  the  byrne? 

The  mother  call  childhood  again  to  her  knee, 

That  in  manhood  went  forth  the  strong  and  the  free  ? 

Nay,  nay,  no  true  mother  would  ask  for  them  back  ; 

Her  work  nobly  done,  their  firm  tramp  on  life's  track 

Will  come  like  an  organ  note,  lofty  and  clear, 

To  lift  up  her  soul  and  her  spirits  to  cheer  ! 

And  though  the  tears  fall,  when  she's  silent  and  lone, 

She'll  know  it  is  best  they  are  scattered  and  gone. 

Silent  and  lone,  silent  and  lone  ! 

Thy  will,  O  Father,  not  my  will  be  done  ! 

Frances  D.  Gagi 


OLD    FOLKS. 

An  !  don't  be  sorrowful,  darling, 
And  don't  be  sorrowful,  pray  : 

Taking  the  year  together,  my  dear, 
There  isn't  more  night  than  day. 

'Tis  rainy  weather,  my  darling ; 

Time's  waves  they  heavily  run  : 
But  taking  the  year  together,  my  dear, 

There  isn't  more  cloud  than  sun  ! 


MY   MOTHER.  331 

"We  are  old  folk  now,  my  darling  ; 

Our  heads  thev  are  growing  eray  : 
But  taking  the  year  all  round,  my  dear, 

You  will  always  find  the  May. 

"We  have  had  our  May,  my  darling, 

And  our  roses  long  ago  ; 
And  the  time  of  year  is  coming,  my  dear, 

For  the  silent  night  and  the  snow  ! 

And  God  is  God,  my  darling, 

Of  night  as  well  as  of  day  : 
And  we  feel  and  know  that  we  can  go 

Wherever  he  leads  the  way. 

Ay,  God  of  the  night,  my  darling, 

Of  the  night  of  death  so  grim  ; 
The  gate  that  from  life  leads  out,  good  wife, 

Is  the  gate  that  leads  to  Him. 


MY    MOTHER. 

My  mother's  voice  !  how  often  creeps 
Its  cadence  on  my  lonely  hours  ! 

Like  healing  on  the  wings  of  sleep, 
Or  dew  on  the  unconscious  flowers. 


832  MY   MOTHER. 

I  might  forget  her  melting  prayer, 
While  pleasure's  pulses  madly  fly  : 

But  in  the  still,  unbroken  air, 

Her  gentle  tones  come  stealing  by ; 

And  years  of  sin  and  manhood  flee, 

And  leave  me  at  my  mother's  knee. 

The  book  of  Nature,  and  its  print 
Of  beauty  on  the  whispering  sea, 
Give  still  to  me  some  lineament 

Of  what  I  have  been  taught  to  be. 
My  heart  is  harder,  and  perhaps 

My  manliness  has  drunk  up  tears, 
And  there's  a  mildew  in  the  lapse 

Of  a  few  miserable  years  ; 
But  Nature's  book  is  even  yet 
With  all  my  mother's  lessons  writ. 

I  have  been  out  at  eventide, 

Beneath  a  moonlight  sky  of  spring, 
When  earth  was  garnished  like  a  bride, 

And  night  had  on  her  silver  wing,  — 
When  bursting  buds  and  growing  grass, 

And  waters  leaping  to  the  light, 
And  all  that  makes  the  pulses  pass 

With  a  wild  fleetness  thronged  the  night, 
AYlien  all  was  beauty,  then  have  I, 

With  friends  on  whom  my  love  is  flung 
Like  myrrh  on  wings  of  Araby, 

Gazed  up  where  evening'-  lamp  is  hung. 


THE    GEAY    SWAN.  •    333 

And  when  the  beauteous  spirit  there 

Flung  over  all  its  golden  chain, 
My  mother's  voice  came  in  the  air, 

Like  the  light  dropping  of  the  rain. 
And,  resting  on  some  silver  star, 

The  spirit  of  a  bended  knee, 
I've  poured  a  deep  and  fervent  prayer, 

That  our  eternity  might  be,  — 
To  rise  in  heaven,  like  stars  at  night, 

And  tread  a  living  path  of  light. 

N.  P.  Willis. 


THE    GRAY   SWAN. 

"Oh  !  tell  me,  sailor,  tell  me  true, 

Is  my  little  lad,  my  Elihu, 

A  sailing  with  your  ship  ?  " 

The  sailor's  eyes  were  dim  with  dew,  — 

"Your  little  lad,  your  Elihu?" 

He  said  with  trembling  lip  :  — 
"What  little  lad?  what  ship?" 

"  What  little  lad  ?  as  if  there  could  be 

Another  such  a  one  as  he  ! 

"What  little  lad,  do  you  say? 

Why,  Elihu,  that  took  to  the  sea 

The  moment  I  put  him  off  my  knee  ! 
It  was  just  the  other  day 
The  Gray  Swan  sailed  away." 


334.  THE    GKAY    SWAN. 

"  The  other  day  ?  "     The  sailor's  eyes 
Stood  open  with  a  great  surprise  :  — 

"The  other  day?  the  Swan?" 
His  heart  began  in  his  throat  to  rise. 
"Ay,  ay,  sir,  here  in  the  cupboard  lies 

The  jacket  he  had  on." — 

"  And  so  your  lad  is  gone  ?  " 

"  Gone  with  the  Swan  ?  "  —  "  And  did  she  stand, 
With  her  anchor  clutching  hold  of  the  sand, 

For  a  month,  and  never  stir? 
"  Why,  to  be  sure  !     I've  seen  from  the  land, 
Like  a  lover  kissing  his  lady's  hand, 

The  wild  sea  kissing  her,  — 

A  sight  to  remember,  sir  !  " 

"But,  my  good  mother,  do  you  know 
*    All  this  was  twenty  years  ago? 

I  stood  on  the  Gray  Swan's  deck, 

And  to  that  lad  I  saw  you  throw, 

Taking  it  off,  as  it  might  be,  so  ! 

The  kerchief  from  your  neck."  — 
"  Ay,  and  he'll  bring  it  back  !  " 

"And  did  the  little  lawless  lad, 

That  has  made  you  sick  and  made  you  sad, 

Sail  with  the  Gray  Swan's  crew?" 
"  Lawless  !     The  man  is  going  mad  ! 
The  best  boy  ever  mother  had  :  — 


THE    GRAY    SWAN.  335 

Be  sure  he  sailed  with  the  crew ! 
What  would  you  have  him  do  ?  " 

"  And  he  has  never  written  line, 

Nor  sent  you  word  nor  made  you  sign, 

To  say  he  was  alive  ?  "  — 
"  Hold  !  if  'twas  wrong,  the  wrong  is  mine  ; 
Besides,  he  may  be  in  the  brine ; 

And  could  he  write  from  the  grave  ? 

Tut,  man  !  what  would  you  have  ?  " 

"  Gone  twenty  years,  —  a  long,  long  cruise,  — 
'Twas  wicked  thus  your  love  to  abuse  ! 

But  if  the  lad  still  live, 
And  come  back  home,  think  you,  you  can 
Forgive  him  ?  "  —  "  Miserable  man  ! 

You're  mad  as  the  sea,  you  rave  — 

What  have  I  to  forgive  ?  " 

The  sailor  twitched  his  shirt  so  blue, 
And  from  within  his  bosom  drew 

The  kerchief.      She  was  wild. 
"  O  God,  my  Father  !  is  it  true? 
My  little  lad,  my  Elihu  ! 

My  blessed  boy,  my  child  ! 

My  dead,  my  living  child  !  " 

Alice  Carey. 


336  AX    AUTUMN    BIRTHDAY. 


AN  AUTUMN   BIRTHDAY. 

Not  beautiful, — but  in  thine  eyes 
Such  depth  of  tranquil  light  there  lies, 
That,  when  thy  gaze  is  turned  to  mine, 
It  seems  less  human  than  divine. 

No  longer  young  ;  — the  soberer  years, 
And  Time,  who  decks  his  flowers  with  tears, 
Have  taken  less  than  they  have  given,  — 
And  earth  looks  pale  the  nearer  heaven. 

Thine  is  the  soft  autumnal  day 
Of  russet  wood  and  welkin  gray ; 
The  quiet  fulness  that  hath  ta'en 
The  place  of  summer's  mirth  and  pain. 

What  birth-day  gift  is  fitly  brought, 
That  Nature  yields  or  Art  hath  wrought?  — 
A  woven  crown  of  ripening  wheat, 
And  sprays  of  ecentful  meadow-sweet. 

The  berried  holly's  leaf  of  thorn, 
I  think  thou  wilt  not  dread  or  scorn; 
For  thou  hast  learned  the  lesson  rare 
Of  patience,  —  both  to  do  and  bear. 


EOCK   ME    TO    SLEEP.  ^  337 

Encircled  thou,  in  twofold  light 
From  both  the  worlds  thou  hast  in  sight ; 
Like  Cortes,  blessing  on  his  knees 
His  God,  as  he  two  oceans  sees. 

Xot  mine,  as  yet,  to  know  thy  calm; 
Xot  mine  to  raise  thy  peaceful  psalm  : 
But  I  may  love  thee,  and  not  less 
For  thy  more  perfect  happiness. 

So,  sitting  the  ripe  shocks  beneath, 
I  crown  thee  with  an  autumn  wreath ; 
And  hail  thy  birthdays  as  they  flow  :  — 
Our  hearts  were  one,  long,  long  ago. 

OXCE    A    YTtEK 


ROCK   ME   TO   SLEEP. 

Backward,  turn  backward,  O  Time  !  in  your  flight 
Make  me  a  child  again,  just  for  to-night  ! 
Mother,  come  back  from  the  echoless  shore ; 
Take  me  again  to  your  heart  as  of  yore ; 
Kiss  from  my  forehead  the  furrows  of  care  ; 
Smooth  the  few  silver  threads  out  of  my  hair ; 
Over  my  slumbers  your  loving  watch  keep  ; 
Bock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  —  rock  me  to  sleep  ! 
22 


338  ROCK   ME    TO    SLEEP. 

Backward,  flow  backward,  O  tide  of  the  years  ! 

I  am  so  weary  of  toils  and  of  tears, — 

Toil  without  recompense,  — tears  all  in  vain  :  — 

Take  them,  and  give  me  my  childhood  again  ! 

I  have  grown  weary  of  dust  and  decay, 

Weary  of  flinging  my  soul-wealth  away,  — 

Weary  of  sowing  for  others  to  reap  : 

Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  — rock  me  to  sleep  ! 

Tired  of  the  hollow,  the  base,  the  untrue,  — 
Mother,  O  mother  !  my  heart  calls  for  you  ! 
Many  a  summer  the  grass  has  grown  green. 
Blossomed  and  faded,  —  our  faces  between  ; 
Yet,  with  strong  yearning  and  passionate  paiu, 
•  Long  I  to-night  for  your  presence  again  ; 
Come  from  the  silence  so  long  and  so  deep  : 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  — rock  me  to  sleep  ! 

Over  my  heart  in  the  days  that  are  flown, 
No  love  like  mother-love  ever  was  shown  ; 
No  other  worship  abides  and  endures, 
Faithful,  unselfish,  and  patient,  like  yours. 
None  like  a  mother  can  charm  away  pain 
From  the  sick  soul  and  the  world-weary  brain; 
SI  limber's  soft  calm  o'er  my  heavy  lids  creep  : 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother.  — rock  mc  to  sleep  ! 

Come,  let  your  brown  hair,  just  lighted  with  gold, 
Fall  on  your  shoulders  again  as  of  old; 


339 


Let  it  fall  over  my  forehead  to-night, 
Shading  my  faint  eyes  away  from  the  light  ; 
For  with  its  sunnv-edoed  shadows  once  more, 
Haply  will  throng  the  sweet  visions  of  yore, 
Lovingly,  softly,  its  bright  billows  sweep  : 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  — rock  me  to  sleep  ! 

Mother,  dear  mother  !  the  years  have  been  long 
Since  I  last  hushed  to  your  lullaby  song  : 
Since  then,  and  unto  my  soul  it  shall  seem 
Womanhood's  years  have  been  but  a  dream  : 
Clasped  to  your  arms  in  a  loving  embrace, 
With  your  light  lashes  just  sweeping  my  face, 
Never  hereafter  to  wake  or  to  weep, 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  — rock  me  to  sleep  ! 

Mrs.  Akei 


"THE   E'EN   BRINGS   A'   HAME." 

Upox  the  hills  the  wind  is  sharp  and  cold, 
The  sweet  young  grasses  wither  on  the  wold, 
And  we,  O  Lord  !   have  wandered  from  thy  fold ; 
But  evening  brings  us  home. 

Among  the  mists  we  stumbled  and  the  rocks 
Where  the  brown  lichen  whitens,  and  the  fox 
Watches  the  straggler  from  the  scattered  flocks  ; 
But  evening  brings  us  home. 


340 


The  sharp  thorns  prick  us,  and  our  tender  feet 
Are  cut  and  bleeding,  and  the  lambs  repeat 
Their  pitiful  complaints,  —  Oh,  rest  is  sweet 
"When  evening  brings  us  home  ! 

"We  have  been  wounded  by  the  hunter's  darts. 
Our  eyes  are  very  heavy,  and  our  hearts 
Search  for  Thy  coming ;  —  when  the  light  departs 
At  evening,  bring  us  home. 

The  darkness  gathers.     Through  the  gloom  no  star 
Rises  to  guide  us.     We  have  wandered  far  :  — 
Without  thy  lamp  we  know  not  what  we  are ; 
At  evening,  bring  us  home. 


The  clouds  are  round  us  and  the  snow-drifts  thicken. 
O  thou,  dear  Shepherd  !  leave  us  not  to  sicken 
In  the  waste  night ;  our  tardy  footsteps  quicken  ; 
At  evening,  bring  us  home. 


Harper's  Weekly. 


INDEX  TO  FIRST   LINES. 


Page. 

A  boy  went  into  the  pleasant  fields 67 

A  dreary  place  would  be  this  earth 295 

A  fair  little  girl  sat  under  a  tree  ....          77 

A  flock  of  merry  singing-birds  were  sporting 92 

A  gardener  went  one  sunshiny  day 218 

A  grain  of  corn  an  infant's  hand 242 

Ah  !  don't  be  sorrowful,  darling 330 

A  little  head  with  its  golden  hair 23 

A  little  tree  grew  in  a  wood 70 

All  the  stars  in  heaven  are  moving 2-10 

A  moment  too  late,  my  beautiful  bird 233 

An  ancient  story  I'll  tell  you  anon 259 

Another  little  private 35 

Art  thou  the  bird  whom  man  loves  best ! Ill 

As  I  walked  over  the  hills,  one  day 49 

As  through  the  land  at  eve  we  went 299 

A  thistle  grew  in  a  sluggard's  croft 166 

A  traveller  through  a  dusty  road 223 

A  wonderful  thing  is  a  seed              165 

[341] 


342  INDEX   TO   FIRST   LINKS. 

Page. 

Backward,  turn  backward,  0  Time  !  in  your  flight 337 

Beat  on,  proud  billows 199 

Be  kind  and  courteous  to  this  gentleman 126 

Ben  Adam  had  a  golden  coin,  one  day 214 

Be  not  swift  to  take  offence 234 

Between  the  dark  and  the  daylight 21 

Birdie,  birdie,  will  you  pet  ? 79 

Breathes  there  the  man  with  soul  so  dead 191 

But  these  others, — children  small 12 

"Buz!"  quoth  the  blue-fly 127 

Chili,  close  the  door 284 

Child  Jesus  comes,  from  heavenly  height 154 

Come,  follow,  follow  me 121 

Come,  Lily,  be  my  little  girl 40 

Come  to  my  arms,  you  bewildering  elf 7 

Count  that  day  lost 157 

Daffy-down-dilly  came  up  in  the  cold 94 

Dear  mother,  I  dreamed  about  heaven 173 

Do  you  know  the  little  Wood-mouse  1 99 

Everlasting  arms  of  love 152 

Father  of  all !  whose  sovereign  will 135 

Give  !  as  the  morning  that  flows  out  of  heaven 112 

Give  forth  thine  earnest  cry 161 

God's  trumpet  wakes  the  slumbering  world 211 

God!  —  what  a  great  and  awful  word 150 

Go  forth  to  life,  O  child  of  Earth  ! 217 

Gold  !  gold  !  gold  !  gold  ! 226 

Good-by,  good-by  to  summer 110 

"  Good-night,  Sir  Rook,"  said  a  little  lark 108 

Good  old  mother  Fairie 128 

Great  Shepherd  of  the  sheep 147 

(irtcii  grass  beneath,  green  leaves  above 27 


INDEX   TO   FIRST   LINES.  343 

Page. 

Happy  insect !  what  can  be 105 

He  liveth  long  who  liveth  well 164 

He  was  so  beautiful,  —  our  child 291 

How  doth  the  little  busy  bee 60 

How  radiant  the  evening  skies 171 

Hush,  my  babe,  lie  still  and  slumber 16 

I  feel  within  a  want 163 

If  I  were  a  sunbeam 61 

I  had  told  him,  Christmas  morning 278 

I  have  seen  my  new-born  sister 69 

I  have  two  sons,  wife 14 

I  live  for  those  who  love  me 215 

I  love  contemplating,  apart 267 

I'm  little  robin  red-breast,  sir 61 

In  a  dirty  old  house  lived  a  dirty  old  man 62 

In  schools  of  wisdom  all  the  day  was  spent 311 

In  the  green  fields  of  Palestine 155 

In  the  soft  season  of  thy  youth 148 

In  the  solemn  shade  of  the  twilight  sky 137 

Into  a  ward  of  the  whitewashed  halls 205 

In  token  that  thou  shalt  not  fear 139 

I  see  a  cottage  leagues  from  here 277 

Is  thy  cruse  of  comfort  wasting  ? 227 

I  should  like  to  guide  the  plough 90 

I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris  and  he 191 

Is  there  for  honest  poverty 247 

It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 318 

I've  a  guinea  I  can  spend 243 

I've  watched  you  now  a  full  half-hour 106 

t 

Jaffar,  the  Barmecide,  the  good  vizier .  197 

Jesus,  holy  Saviour 168 

Jesus  said,  with  soothing  voice    ...     - 156 

Land  of  the  forest  and  the  rock 179 

Let  dogs  delight  to  bark  and  bite 159 

Let  those  Avho  will  claim  gentle  birth 248 


344  INDEX    TO   FIRST   LINES. 

Page. 

Listen  to  the  kite] ion  clock  ! 43 

Little  drops  of  water 56 

Little  girl,  where  do  you  go  to  sehool  ? 294 

Little  Lotty  went  to  ma 44 

Little  one,  eoine  to  my  knee  ! 75 

Little  Btare  are  Bhining 169 

Little  white  Lily 37 

Little  Willie  stood  under  an  apple-tree  old 55 

Lord,  who  ordainest  for  mankind o 

Love  thy  mother,  little  one 24 

My  country,  'tis  of  thee 180 

My  Mahel,  you  once  had  a  hird 324 

My  mother's  voice  !  how  often  creeps 331 

Not  beautiful,  but  in  thine  eyes 336 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulness  . 273 

Now  the  twilight  shadows  flit 10 

O  Alice,  Alice  Carey ! 130 

O  children  !  come  and  look  at  me 41 

Of  leaves  of  roses,  white  and  red 126 

Oli.  call  my  brother  back  to  me  ! 78 

Oh  for  one  hour  of  youthful  joy  ! 326 

Oh,  shun  the  spot 231 

Oh  !  tell  me,  sailor 333 

Oh  !  what  will  become  of  thee,  poor  little  bird  ? 96 

Oh  1  who,  before  the  righteous  God 165 

O  little  presence  !  everywhere 310 

O  mother  !  range  not  overwide 85 

Only  a  baby's  grave 304 

One  autumn  night,  when  the  wind  was  high 25 

One  lesson,  shepherd .  160 

One  step  and  then  another 236 

One  time  my  soul  was  pierced  as  with  a  sword 288 

O  son,  bright  sun,  come  out  of  the  sky 47 

0,  then,  I  see  Queen  Mab  hath  been  with  you 127 


TXDEX    TO   FIRST    LIXES.  345 

Page. 

Our  wean's  the  most  wonderfu'  wean 29 

0  ye  little  tricksey  gods 123 

Poor  little  feet  on  the  pavement  bare 18 

King-ting  !  I  wish  I  were  a  primrose 91 

Said  the  Chaffinch,  M  Sweet,  sweet,  sweet " 97 

She  is  not  pretty,  our  sweet  child 17 

Shepherd  of  tender  youth 142 

Silent  and  lone,  silent  and  lone 328 

Sing  to  the  Lord  the  children's  hymn 140 

Sink,  little  seed,  in  the  earth's  black  mould 172 

Small  service  is  true  service,  while  it  lasts 166 

Softly  down  from  the  cold  gray  sky 113 

Softly,  softly,  little  child 59 

Some  have  thought  that  in  the  dawning 286 

St.  Augustine,  well  hast  thou  said 238 

Stay  not  for  great  endeavor 136 

Suppose  the  little  cowslip 38 

Sweet  earth,  that  holds  my  brightest  prize 306 

The  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck 192 

The  cottage  work  is  over 26 

The  day  is  past  and  gone 170 

The  good  Lord  to  the  spring  once  said 65 

The  hollow  winds  begin  to  blow 107 

The  lady-bug  sat  in  the  rose's  heart 57 

The  lady  lay  in  her  bed 222 

The  lords  of  Thule  it  did  not  please 251 

The  morning  bright 167 

The  night  is  late,  the  house  is  still 311 

The  shining  worlds  that  float  in  space 146 

The  summer  and  autumn  had  been  so  wet 264 

Then  outspake  brave  Horatius 190 

There  is  a  state  unknown,  unseen 145 

There  were  hundreds  that  in  the  hollow  boles 103 

There's  no  dew  left  on  the  daisies  and  clover 87 


346  INDEX   TO   FIRST   LINES. 

Page. 

They  are  sowing  their  seed  by  the  dawnlight  fair 212 

They  call  for  able-bodied  men 202 

This  cricket  is  not  high  enough 63 

This  is  the  first  and  great  command 158 

This  palace  standeth  in  the  air 125 

Think  gently  of  the  erring  one 160 

'Tis  of  a  little  drummer 181 

Thou  art,  O  God !  the  ttfe  and  light 152 

Though  I  speak,  with  angel  tongues 158 

Thou  must  be  true  thyself 161 

Three  years  she  grew,  in  sun  and  shower 88 

To-day  a  lisping  child    .     .     . 303 

To-day  we  cut  the  fragrant  sod 305 

To  do  to  others  as  I  would 162 

To-morrow,  not  to-day,  I'll  do  it 230 

Touch  not  the  tempting  cup,  my  boy 234 

Touch  us  gently,  Time  .    • 321 

Twinkle,  twinkle,  little  star 48 

Two  little  busy  hands  patting  on  the  window 308 

Up  from  the  meadows,  rich  with  corn 187 

Up  the  airy  mountain 119 

Up  this  world,  and  down  this  world 214 

Up  to  me  sweet  childhood  looketh 138 

Upon  the  hills  the  wind  is  sharp  and  cold 339 

Watch  o'er  a  little  child  to-night 169 

We  own  no  houses,  no  lots,  no  lands 322 

We  were  crowded  in  the  cabin 283 

We'll  seek  for  flowers  in  the  woods 281 

What  a  little  thing  am  I 54 

What  does  little  birdie  say  ? 36 

What  is  the  little  one  thinking  about  ? 8 

What  is  this  that  stirs  within 162 

What,  looking  in  the  glass  again! 68 

What  shall  we  bring 164 

Whatever  dims  thy  sense  of  truth 149 

When  children  give  their  hearts  to  God 149 


INDEX   TO   FIEST   LINES.  347 

Page. 

When  do  the  fairies  dance  ? 124 

When  General  Washington  was  young 63 

When  on  the  hreath  of  autumn's  breeze 114 

When  the  lessons  and  tasks  are  all  ended 274 

Where  is  the  true  man's  fatherland  1 207 

While  shepherds  watched  their  flocks  by  night 152 

Whither,  pilgrims,  are  you  going  3 143 

Who  showed  the  little  ant  the  way  1 151 

Winsome  baby  Bunn 4 

With  mingled  trembling  and  delight 101 

With  seeking  hearts  we  still  grope  on 316 

With  what  unknown  delight  the  mother  smiled 318 

Within  a  town  of  Holland  once 81 

Worn  and  footsore  was  the  prophet 297 

Yes,  courage,  boy ;  courage 216 

You  little  twinkling  stars,  that  shine 51 

You  lay  a  wreath  on  murdered  Lincoln's  bier 252 


Cambridge  :  Stereotyped  and  Printed  by  John  "Wilson  and  Sons. 


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